


You Cut Through All the Noise

by 27tattoos



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: (ie they make out a lot but it fades to black before it becomes Too much), Alternate Universe, Angst, Drinking, Drug Use, Fluff and Angst, Glitter Kink, Gratuitous Piano Playing, High School, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Lucas is lowkey Wilhelm but much less of an asshole, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Older Lucas, Younger Eliott, got to include the separate tag now lol yike, now includes the dancing kitchen scene we were robbed of, okay now for some thorst tags, on a car hood too, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2019-11-04 07:39:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 71,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17894264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27tattoos/pseuds/27tattoos
Summary: AU. Lucas is the cool, laidback third year who likes to fuck around. He sees Eliott, the hot first year everyone's been talking about, at a party, and knows he's found his next game.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> So basically this the beginning party scene in S3 but Lucas meets Eliott instead of Chloe and it goes a whole lot better. Also there's a glitter joint. 
> 
> I don't know if I'll write a part two to this, but I love the idea of older, cool guy Lucas who's so smooth and charming with a younger, shy and sweet Eliott. So that's a maybe. I guess we'll see how this goes.
> 
> p.s. - le gang is affectionately referred to as "The Boys"

Somebody has slipped a paper crown onto Lucas’ head during his stumble of a journey from Emma’s living room to her kitchen. He feels it tumble off when he jumps up to sit on the counter and he catches it with the one hand that’s free from holding his joint. It’s amusing. A flimsy yellow thing covered in glitter. He puts it back on and leans back against the counter backsplash, breathing in another hit from the joint. _Fuck_ , he thinks, his eyes settling hazily on the party scene before him, _this is my kingdom_. A crown is only fitting, after all.

Lucas enjoys a few minutes of peace with his joint as he watches from his throne, even pulling a leg up onto the counter to rest his arm on. Maybe he should feel guilty about getting so cozy on Emma’s nice counters – but he doesn’t. Oh well. He looks up after a long exhale of smoke and sees Yann emerge from the crowd, heading his way, and the others must not be far behind. So he takes one last hit from the joint, as deep as he can get, before throwing it into the sink. Weed as good as that is just something he can’t share.

“Lucas! Lucas! Look at that crown!” Basile is the first to say, coming for a high five, which Lucas brushes off with a smirk. It’s an inside joke between them all, something Basile has never been able to live down ever since he refused to wash his hands after hooking up with some girl. Basile takes the dig passively, as he always does. All three of them laugh at him.

Lucas extends greetings to the other two, eyeing the beer bottles they’re nursing… wondering if it’s the good kind of shit. You can never tell either way when it’s Emma hosting the party. 

“Did you hear about some new kid, Lucas?” Arthur says, tipping his beer in Lucas’ direction.

“New kid? Nah…” Lucas mumbles. _Is it never smoke before drinking? Or the other way around? Fuck, I can’t remember._

“He’s a first year, just transferred. He’s been lurking around somewhere. I’m surprised you haven’t heard… supposedly he’s really hot.”

This piques Lucas’ interest and he refocuses his hazy attention. “Oh? Fuckable?”

Basile squawks and Arthur smirks, while Yann just shakes his head. “That’s what’s been said.”

“Well fuck,” Lucas says, adjusting the crown on his head as he feels it falling. “If you see him, tell him to come find me. Where’d you get those beers?”

“I can’t remember, to be honest…” Arthur shrugs, looking to Yann, who does the same. “From someone random, probably.”

“Fuck,” Lucas sighs, leaning his head back against the wall. A beer sounds sounds incredible right now. He really can’t remember what the rule is for weed and alcohol mixed together - but he’s sure it’ll be fine. “I need some.”

“A-ha!” Arthur exclaims, reaching into his front jean pocket. “I’ve got that covered, man. Just bought some today.” It’s a small baggie with weed filing the bottom. Lucas lights up, remembering his joint in the sink with no guilt. Enjoying someone else’s weed while keeping his own? It’s a win-win.

“Fuck, Arthur, always coming in clutch!” Basile interrupts excitedly, eagerly taking the bag and opening it to smell inside it. 

“Where’d you get it from?” Yann asks, taking the bag to do the same. Arthur smiles. 

“I’ve got my regular sources, of course. So who’s gonna start it? Anybody got paper?”

Slowly, the Boys all turn to stare above Lucas’ head, and he realizes it as soon as they do with a satisfied smile. He takes the delicate paper crown off his head, glitter falling off in flakes with the movement.

“Cheers, boys,” he says with a grin as he tears a section off the crown.

***

It’s their third pass around with the glitter crown joint when Lucas sees the boy. He’s across the room, under the pink strobe lights, back turned, wearing some dumb big jacket that must be leaving him sweltering from all the bodies crowded around him. He’s tall, messy hair, long limbs, dancing dorkily. His sharp jawline Lucas can see when his head turns from his dancing catches under the pink lights… Lucas clumsily catalogues all of this into his dazed mind, but he won’t really be able to decide until he sees his face. Basile is pawing at Lucas’ leg, trying to get him to hand over the joint, but Lucas is in game mode. 

“There he is, boys,” he says under his breath. Lucas never has to be loud; if he has something to say, people will listen to him. 

“What?” Basile says, scanning the crowd, trying to spot him. Arthur and Yann snap up too, not wanting to miss out on the action. “You can see him?”

Lucas nods slowly, a smile spreading his lips, and he nods his head in the direction of the boy. They all look where Lucas has indicated, and he sees Arthur’s impressed shrug in the corner of his eye. Even Basile admits it, saying “damn. He looks good.”

“He’s my pull. It’s gonna be a good one, boys,” Lucas grins, smug, and they all whoop as they tease him. Lucas finally hands over the joint to Basile to stop his whining, and blocks out the rest of the Boys straggling over who’s turn it is to hit in favor of staring at the boy.

He’ll eventually notice someone’s got their eye on him. They always do. With this boy, it’s an almost shockingly short amount of time - within a minute of Lucas focusing a hard gaze on him, he turns around and their eyes meet. Lucas is not into cheesy shit. No-hard-feelings, chill and equitable realism is more his speed. Never fake melodramatic bullshit. 

But it’s safe to say that he’s never seen a face more beautiful in his life.

The boy looks away after a few moments in embarrassment, biting his lip. Lucas smiles at him, knowing he’ll look back, and wanting him to receive the message: _Come over. I won’t bite._

He does look again, in a matter of seconds, and Lucas flashes him a grin. It’s a practiced one, just the right amount of teeth, just the perfect amount of lowered eyelids. And it works, every fucking time. The boy points Lucas out to his friends, who all glance over only to quickly break away in giggles. The boy whispers to them for a few moments, Lucas honing in on his hands as they touch his friends’ arms, and then he’s on his way over.

Fuck. Lucas is so fucking game. Let it begin.

“He’s coming over,” he says, interrupting whatever conversation the Boys were having before.

They all blink in confusion for a moment, as they’d been squabbling over who got the next hit, before realizing in an instant. “You got him already??” Basile cries, a distinct touch of envy in his tone. Lucas pays them no mind; he’s only got eyes for the boy.

Arthur is shaking his head in disbelief, while Yann looks as he normally does: proud, amused, but mostly bored. “Should we leave now?” Arthur says timidly, and Yann brushes him off with a smirk. 

“Nah, we don’t have to yet. Lucas is gonna want to show off.” 

Lucas turns to roll his eyes at Yann. “Give me the joint,” he orders, and Basile does it without thinking. Lucas puts it in his mouth, some glitter sprinkling off onto his hands, and he leans back. “Watch and learn, boys.”

The boy has arrived. He’s stunning up close – hooded green eyes, unruly brown hair, pink lips that curve just like his sharp jaw. Somebody lets out a squeak – probably Basile – and the boy speaks.

“Hello,” he says, nervous. _He looks young… what was it Arthur said he was? A new first year?_ New kids are no problem. Lucas will just have to make him feel more welcome.

He slides forward on the counter so he’s no longer leaning back against the wall, but just resting on the edge, with his legs hanging over. He spreads them, only ever so slightly; the line between being a gentleman and getting what he wants is hard to walk. Lucas watches with a dark blooming pleasure as the boy’s eyes track the movement; he takes the joint out of his mouth and licks his lips. 

“What’s your name, baby?” Lucas asks, not once taking his eyes off him. His friends around them? Forgotten. His head slumps back so he can observe the boy from under his eyelashes, watch a pink blush rise on his cheeks. 

“Eliott. It’s Eliott.” Eliott licks his lips, eyes briefly glancing to the place where Lucas’ legs are spread. It was a blink and you miss it glance, but Lucas never fucking blinks. Not when he’s _game_. The Boys’ jaws all drop around them as they watch the Master at work.

“Do you smoke, Eliott?” Lucas asks, and beside him he hears Arthur make a noise of displeasure. Nobody wants to share their weed with strangers. But Yann silences him with a touch to the arm and a look, and Lucas is reminded of the power of a wingman. 

Eliott is so beautifully blushy. He smiles and looks away, shaking his head shyly. “No, I’ve never smoked. I’ve always wanted to try, though.”

“Hmm,” Lucas says, inhaling a big hit and holding it for a second before releasing the smoke in a pulse from his mouth. “Tonight’s your lucky night, Eliott. Come here.” 

As Eliott smiles, cheeks flushing with delight, Yann is the best best best friend in the world and he guides the Boys away – he’ll have to thank him later. Arthur mouths “you owe me” to Lucas right before he disappears out of sight, and Basile, not knowing whether he wanted to flee or stay to watch his best friend make out with a boy, looks forlorn that the choice was taken from him. But Eliott approaches now, settling between his open legs. He’s close enough to lay tentative hands on Lucas’ knees, close enough for Lucas to smell the detergent from his clothes, and Lucas forgets his friends without a second thought.

“So, Eliott.” Lucas reaches down and takes Eliott’s hand, the skin soft and downy, and puts the joint in his grip. He watches gleefully as glitter catches all over palms. “Go ahead and try. I know you’re a beginner, I won’t judge you.”

Eliott goes again with his shy smile, and Lucas smiles in return. His eyes smolder as he watches Eliott bring the joint up to his lips, glitter falling, and he looks down to his chest as he takes a deep inhale. Lucas feels the most heady surge of desire he’s felt in a long while. It’s slightly fucking intoxicating.

But then Eliott coughs, the hit too big, and Lucas laughs with a thrill. He looks embarrassed but Lucas shakes his head, taking the joint back and closing Eliott’s body in with his legs.

“No worries. We’ll try something else. Watch…” Lucas takes a big hit himself, closing his eyes in ecstasy as another round of weed settles into his lungs and bloodstream. He grabs Eliott’s chin, smearing glitter onto his skin, and brings him an inch away from his lips. Eliott opens his lips in expectance of a kiss, but Lucas blows all the smoke into his mouth instead.

A moan escapes him. A fucking _moan_. Lucas’ jeans feel tighter. 

“Oh, shit,” Eliott says, eyes rolling back as they close, and Lucas’ legs squeeze around him. “That was good.”

“Mm-hmmm,” Lucas gets out, on the edge of a moan himself. He wants this kid. He wants him now, and badly.

“Again?” Eliott asks, eyes playful, and Lucas looks him up and down. 

“I’m under your command,” he whispers, letting Eliott hang on each word. He’s got this kid in the palm of his hands, and, for the first time in a long time, vice fucking versa. So he takes the biggest hit he can hold from the joint, then flicks it out of sight onto the counter, and grabs Eliott’s waist to pull him closer before meeting their lips to blow the smoke into his mouth. Eliott is taking Lucas’ breath. He can have it… he can fucking have it.

“Fuck,” Lucas whispers when they briefly break apart only to crash back together. Eliott’s hands have wound their way around Lucas’ waist now, and they sneak under his shirt to run skin along Lucas’ lower back. Lucas completely tightens his legs around Eliott’s body, pulling him closer closer closer closer until no part of their bodies aren’t touching. Lucas slips his hands under Eliott’s heavy jacket, stroking along his back over his shirt. They move together as they kiss, over and over, bodies breathing in sync, gasping in sync. Lucas tunes into his ears, and he can hear the wet smacking sounds they’re making, can hear their clothes rustling. He shivers.

Lucas pulls away with a bite from Eliott’s lip, and they can only stare at each other for a few heavy seconds. Lucas looks down at Eliott’s mouth and a thrill runs through him… there’s glitter on his tongue. 

Lucas whispers. “You’re so… fucking…” He stamps each word with a kiss around Eliott’s jaw. “Hot. Where have you been? Where have you been?”

Eliott whines and they rejoin, mouths opening again, and Lucas grinds up against him. In hindsight, this position couldn’t have been more perfect, as they are now matching heights and Lucas is at the perfect vantage point to grind his dick into Eliott’s. He almost pats himself on the back. He almost wishes he still had the crown to wear, because he’s never felt more deserving of it than right now, but it’s served a much greater purpose. A purpose of putting glitter in between their lips.

Lucas’ hands slide from cradling Eliott’s neck down to grip his arms, and then down to his waist under his jacket, where he pulls him in, nearly lifts him up. Eliott is whining, he keeps fucking whining and it is _maddening_. Lucas groans as the sound reverberates in his ears, a constant echo chamber. 

They break apart again to allow for Lucas to grip his fingers under Eliott’s belt, feeling the hard skin of his stomach. “So,” he whispers, pitch as low as he can get it, “you gonna let me fuck you?”

Eliott exhales shakily. Did his eyes used to be that dark? “God... not tonight. Sorry.”

Lucas shakes his head and laughs. “You don’t need to say that. This feels like fucking already, to be honest.”

Eliott bites his glittered lip, the truth of Lucas’ statement surely settling in. His blood gets hot, Lucas can feel it on his skin. Lucas leans in again to mouth along Eliott’s neck, arms tightening around his waist, legs tightening around his hips, and they slowly grind together once more…

And then Lucas’ ears pick up on the word cops, passing around the party in worried mumbles. His eyes open and he pulls away abruptly, glancing at the joint on the counter and his own joint in the sink. Eliott remains blissful to the world, leaning forward to nuzzle his nose into Lucas’ neck, sliding his hands up Lucas’ thighs. Lucas thinks of the scene they must be making… two kids absolutely fucked on weed, and he grabs Eliott’s face between his hands.

“Hey. Hey, wake up. We gotta go, Eliott, there’s cops.”

“What?” Eliott says, slowly opening his eyes, waking up from the heavy daze they’ve put themselves in. “Cops?”

“Yeah, baby, cops,” Lucas nods, the endearment slipping off his tongue without a second thought. He might cringe about it later when he’s lying in bed… and then he realizes what he’ll be doing in his bed later, when he thinks back to a few minutes ago… and he snaps himself back into the moment with frustration.“Let’s go, let’s go, we’ve been smoking.”

Eliott looks so put out and Lucas feels so bad. He considers pulling him back in, back into that little bubble… maybe in an alternate universe. “I’ve gotta find my friends,” Eliott says, dejected, confused, the muddled situation no doubt exacerbated by the weed he’s consumed. “They’re… around…”

“Okay. Promise me you’ll find your friends, cause I really have to go,” Lucas says seriously, grabbing both the glitter joint off the counter and his own from the sink. He carefully places them in his front pockets. 

“Yeah yeah, I promise.” Lucas stares at him for a hard moment, before deciding he trusts him enough to get himself safe. 

There’s a moment of silence where they stand together, and Lucas is not sure what to say… a first, for him. He hesitates, a sound caught in his throat, but before he can speak Eliott has spotted one of his friends and he’s off. Without so much as a goodbye. Lucas will think about that later but right now he has to _go_. 

He manages to escape out the window, just in time, before a cop starts to snoop their way into Emma’s house.

***

Lucas lies in his bed now. Joints safely tucked in his dresser drawer. Clothes strewn about the room, teeth brushed, ankles crossed as he lies, waiting, on his bed. He doesn’t want to be _too_ desperate, even when he’s all alone in the room. So he makes himself wait for a minute. Sixty seconds. Honestly, he should be thinking and sending good thoughts into the universe or whatever the fuck about Eliott’s safety and if he managed to find his friends and get out of the house without encountering anybody. Yeah, he’ll think about that. He hopes he did. He briefly wonders about the Boys, but whatever, he’s sure they’re fine. Yann wouldn’t let them get caught, and they didn’t have their usual weed on them, anyway.

It’s been sixty seconds, it must have been. It actually might have only been twenty… but it feels like sixty and to be frank, he’s still high and he can’t wait anymore. So he pretends that enough reasonable time has passed for him to accept himself as someone who is not pathetic and who can restrain himself before desperation. Yep.

So he brings his hand down and allows the memories of the party to come back… _Eliott’s smell,_ stroke. 

_Eliott’s hands,_ stroke.

 _Eliott’s hands on my back,_ stroke.

 _Eliott’s pink lips. Eliott’s hard jaw. Eliott’s lean arms._ Stroke stroke stroke.

 _The fucking glitter._ He bites his lip to suppress a moan.

Lucas’ thinking about how responsive his hips were, how warm the skin was just under his belt, trying unsuccessfully to quiet his whimpers, and then he remembers Eliott’s whines. _Fuck,_ Eliott’s whines. That’s what brings him over the edge and he moans and arches, then quiets himself down out of consideration of his roommates.

He pictures that, as he’s coming down with heavy breaths: his roommates tomorrow morning, wicked glints in their eyes as they tease him for his volume. They would ask who did it to him, mocking him for taking a sad wank over a fuck he could have easily brought home from the party. Mika would inevitably bring up something vulgar and annoying, like _what happened, watched one too many My Little Pony’s and got excited?_

But he smiles, picturing all this, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to say a word. There’s no way he could explain Eliott. He’s too tired to even think about trying. He moves onto his side and pulls up his comforter, soft smile pricking his lips as he drifts to sleep.

Glitter is left on his pillowcase.


	2. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've updated! i'm shocked! i really didn't think i'd be able to do it this quickly - something about older lucas with baby eliott inspires me :)
> 
> there's a one direction reference in here cause i'm a pathetic gal - comment if you catch it!
> 
> oh ps - i just changed the title. don't worry, still the same fic :)

Basile won’t shut the fuck up with his questions about what happened Saturday night. They’re sitting in their usual corner for lunch, and Yann is bragging about some girl he went down on, and Lucas is really just trying to eat his sandwich in peace. But Basile keeps tapping his arm, asking him if he “went all the way”, as if it’s 2012.

“Why do you care anyway? Are you that desperate for action?” Lucas bites, and Arthur laughs as Basile’s face falls. He mutters a retort that Lucas doesn’t care to hear. 

It’s quiet for a few seconds, nobody knowing how to fill the awkward silence he’s made. Lucas rolls his eyes, figuring he might as well fix it himself, too, since the Boys are so lacking in finesse. It’s easy – a talent of his.

“All I’ll tell you,” Lucas says after he swallows another bite of his sandwich, “is that I got my pull. Basile could probably put the rest together for us from his wet dreams.”

Arthur’s mouth drops, Basile’s face reddens and Lucas smirks. Sometimes it’s too easy. Arthur pipes in, asking, “do you want to see him again?”

Lucas considers the question. _Yes,_ he thinks impulsively. _Yes. Yes._ But he brushes it off as quick as it came, reigning himself back in. Lucas is not desperate. He fucks around, yes - sometimes a new boy every weekend - but he’s never desperate. Boys come to him, not the other way around. 

“Yeah,” he says coolly, wishing he had a joint. He finished off his own on Sunday, and returned Arthur’s under the table today. He thinks he might have some in his car - he’ll have to look. “If he comes back.”

That ends that, and Yann takes the opportunity to steer the conversation back to his cunnilingus skills. But Lucas’ mind wanders, thinking about that night again… and again. Probably for the hundredth time since it happened. He can’t stop reliving how Eliott’s weed-traced tongue tasted… he can feel it again in his own mouth, if he tries hard enough. A ghost.

Lucas looks up, scanning the cafeteria. He wonders where Eliott sits for lunch. He wonders how his friends look in the daylight… he wonders how _he_ looks in the daylight. Surely just as pretty. Probably prettier, due to increased visibility of his rose-pink cheeks. Unfortunately, Lucas can’t spot him anywhere. He’s probably one of those annoying peace-and-love kids that lies on the grass outside to eat. True to his word, Lucas won’t pursue him. He’ll stumble upon him eventually.

***

It doesn’t take long. Lucas is waiting outside his biology classroom, as his French class got out early and he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Just down the hall, out of the chemistry room, another class emerges. Eliott walks out of the fray immediately, again wearing that heavy, dorky jacket, chatting with a friend about who knows what (fuck chemistry, in Lucas’ opinion, it’s one of his worst subjects). Lucas brightens, alert. He drinks him in. Yeah, oh yeah. He’s pretty in the daylight.

Eliott looks up and spots him, and that lovely, lovely, lovely blush pinkens his cheeks. Lucas’ mouth nearly waters at the sight. Eliott says goodbye to his friend and walks up to him, eyeing him up and down, and a faint smirk tightens his lips.

Lucas smiles, curious. “What?”

And Elliott laughs, shaking his head. “Nothing. You’re just… so short.”

Lucas pretends to be affronted while Eliott giggles, and he puffs up his chest. “Give me a break, I’m big.”

Eliott shakes his head, eyes crinkling with his laughter. “Nope. Not at all.”

Lucas smiles, friendly, leaning his shoulder against the locker beside him and crossing his ankles. “I guess you’re right. Must’ve been hard to tell, when you were wrapped under my legs, and all.” 

That hits. Eliott’s eyebrows raise and he looks away with an embarrassed smile, and Lucas laughs. He’s reigned in it again. The floor belongs to him. 

“So, anyway. Busy day today?” Lucas asks, wanting Eliott to look back up. They always have to look at him; he has no other way to tell if his advances are hitting home or not. Eliott composes himself and meets his eyes again, and they’re teeming with glee, with youthful shyness. 

“Not really. I just have art left. What about you?”

“Me? I’m a free man,” Lucas replies nonchalantly. “No biology class I have to go to. That’s for sure.”

Eliott turns around to steal a glance at the clearly marked biology classroom that Lucas was waiting in front of, and he laughs. “Alright, I believe you. What will you do with all that spare time?”

Lucas decides how he should play this out. Should he ask outright? Leave him in the dust, asking for more? Should he be honest (snort)? He decides on the best course of action, what pulled Eliott in the first place Saturday night. He tilts his neck down, watching Eliott from under his eyelashes, and scans him head to toe. Then he leans his head back once more, neck exposed.

Eliott gulps. He’s got him.

“I can’t skip class,” Eliott says dryly, gripping his backpack straps. 

Lucas sighs in mock defeat. “Alright then. See you.” He stands up straight from the lockers and looks Eliott up and down one last time, before turning on his heels and ambling through the hallway. He walks slowly, deliberate; it’s mere seconds before he hears another pair of footsteps following closely behind.

“So where are you taking me?” he hears him ask, bright and tentative. An eagerness just barely tamped down. Lucas smiles to himself and spares a glance back at him, watching his hips sway as he walks, his hair feathered across his forehead.

He says nothing in reply, and turns back around. They simply walk down the hall together, out into the courtyard, past the school gate. Each time Lucas’ left hand swings back, he could almost swear the skin of Eliott’s soft right greets it.

But it’s probably just the breeze.

***

They cruise through the empty streets of Paris. Lucas doesn’t lust over cars; as long as it runs smoothly, looks cool, and drives fast, he’s not picky. His father gifted him a black Benz when he was fifteen, as a prelude to the announcement that he was divorcing Mom and fucking off to London. A pretty fair trade, Lucas would say. 

Though Lucas doesn’t care much for cars, he can tell Eliott is having the time of his life. As they walked to the parking lot, closer and closer to the Benz parked in the far corner, Eliott still couldn’t believe it.

“ _That’s_ your car? _You’re_ the Benz owner?” he gasped, clearly thunderstruck. Lucas laughed in reply, not sure what else to say. 

“I guess I am. Pleasure to meet you,” he bowed, but Eliott was distracted, running an awed hand along the ridged hood. It took another five minutes of him admiring the shape, the wheels, and running his hands through his hair in disbelief before he stepped in. It was charming. Cute. Lucas was so used to the car by now, but trying to imagine it from an outsider’s eyes now… he did suppose it was kind of cool.

Now, as the car glides silently through the streets (barren, because Lucas knows which routes are crowded and which routes are good for the privacy an eventual fuck deserves) Lucas feels pride where he never has before. Eliott is clearly impressed, and Lucas – _likes_ that. He wants to impress him. For the first time, he does a double take before turning on his music, hoping that Eliott won’t turn his nose at it.

He doesn’t, not exactly.

“The Clash?” he asks, smiling knowingly. Lucas nods, humming along to the song, but turns his head to find Eliott giggling.

“What’s so funny?” he smiles, staring at him in earnest. 

“Nothing. I just expected, like… rap. Post Malone, The Weeknd, Kanye, that kind of stuff. You seem the type.”

Now Lucas is the one wrinkling his nose. “Come _on._ I’m not that cliché, am I?”

Eliott shrugs. “Rock is like, the second most cliché thing to be into.”

Lucas shakes his head and turns his eyes fully back on the road, charmed. Endeared. “Oh, good. I would never want to be the _most_ cliché. Second most, though, that’s fine.”

It was hardly funny, but Eliott laughs with glee. A moment of ease befalls them, a new Clash song in the background the only noise, before Lucas steps in again. “You do me one better, then. What do you listen to?”

Eliott smiles and looks away, eyes downcast, shy. “Oh, I don’t know…” 

Lucas keeps his eyes on the road but wheedles him – not touching, though. He hasn’t touched him at all, yet. He’s saving it for a big effort. “C’mon, you can tell me. As long as it’s not the most cliché, I won’t judge,” he says brightly, and Eliott rolls his eyes.

“Dubstep. I like dubstep,” he counters, and Lucas doesn’t know how to respond for a moment. If one of his friends, if _Basile,_ had said some stupid shit like that, he would have been mercilessly teased. _Is this 2012? Are you the kind of person that has a minute long intro on your gaming YouTube videos?_

But it’s Eliott, and he’s pink cheeked like always, and he’s biting away a shy smile, and Lucas doesn’t know what to think other than it’s cute. _Of course_ it’s something absolutely fucking dorky like dubstep. What else could it be?

“I could be into dubstep,” Lucas shrugs in surrender, looking over at Eliott one more time. He’s containing a smile, but he’s clearly pleased. Surprised. He won’t say another word, leaving Lucas with the burden of being the last to say something. He’s alright with it.

Lucas slides his gaze back up front, Eliott stares out the passenger window, and they watch the road pass by in a blur.

***

“What is this place?” Eliott breaks their silence, almost a half an hour later. Lucas had driven out of the city into the countryside, along winding dust roads, down the hills. They’ve come up on one of Lucas’ favorite places: a small meadow, concealed by surrounding hills, with only one tiny dirt path signifying its presence. It’s quiet. It’s sunny. The grass hides peeking purple daisies, and they fill the air with their heady scent.

If Lucas is being honest, it’s one of the only places he associates with peace. He feels like he’s awakened from a daze now that the drive is over; he suddenly can’t remember why he decided to bring Eliott here, to a place so vulnerable, and his insides freeze up for a moment in panic. Fuck, he has turn around. They have to leave. This is not a place to bring a conquest.

But then Eliott opens his car door, shrugging his jacket off and leaving it on the seat before stepping out into the grass, into the sunshine. Lucas eyes him through the windshield as he begins to venture out into the meadow, hands outstretched to catch the sun, mouth agape, the toes of his shoes gently digging into the earth beneath his feet as he twirls around. 

And as suddenly as it came, Lucas’ panic subsides. His skin raises with the impulse to be greeted by the sun, and he steps out of the car into the warm light. The sky is tinted with the barest hint of nightfall; it’s yawning. 

“This is beautiful,” Eliott says softly, as Lucas approaches him. The sun does something like no other to his skin. He glows, he beams, a ray of light himself. Lucas’ eyes flick to his lips on impulse, suddenly feeling desperate to kiss him. He nearly shakes with the force of it.

“Glad you like it,” Lucas replies, his voice horridly soft as well. He clears his throat, tenses his neck to get rid of it. He smooths himself back in control. “I have an idea.”

“What is it?” Eliott asks, a gleam in his eye. He bends down to run his fingers through a cluster of purple daisies. He stands back up when there’s no answer and narrows his eyes, suspicious of Lucas’ growing smirk. “What are you gonna do with me?”

“Go sit on the car. I’ll show you in a minute.” Lucas points to the Benz, front wheels parked just on the edge of the meadow. Eliott still seems suspicious, staying in place, but Lucas laughs and gives him a light shove. 

“Go on. What’s the worst I could do?” he says with a lopsided grin, and that seems to bring Eliott back into a rosy blush. He moves to the car sheepishly, plopping himself onto the edge of the hood, while Lucas follows and walks to the back, opening one of the doors. He knows he’s hidden one _somewhere,_ somewhere under one of the seats…

Eliott waits patiently on the hood, leaning back on his hands and crossing his ankles as he surveys the meadow again. It’s another thirty seconds before Lucas comes back, a rolled joint and a lighter in his hand. He quirks his eyebrows when Eliott makes an eager face.

“No glitter this time?” Eliott teases as Lucas jumps onto the car hood to join him (he won’t acknowledge that Eliott is so tall, he doesn’t have to jump. It’ll wound his ego). Lucas rolls his eyes but he’s abruptly pulled back to that night, the image of the glitter on Eliott’s tongue heating his blood. He shakes his head, but crowds forward, suddenly longing. He realizes what a devastating loss it’s been that he hasn’t kissed Eliott all day. 

Eliott lies back as Lucas leans forward. They situate themselves briefly, Eliott scooting backward so his length matches with the car hood, and Lucas climbing over him to sit on his hips, hands placed on either side of him. “Mm-mm. No glitter.” He leans down and rubs their noses together, breathing him in. The meadow’s perfume has soaked into his skin. “Disappointed?”

Eliott gulps, mouth opening as he stares at Lucas, who smirks and sits back, placing all his weight back on Eliott’s hips. “N-no,” he stutters.

“Good. Being disappointing would be the most cliché,” Lucas says with an edge of a laugh, and he lights the joint still in his hand. He takes a drag after it’s lit, a bit selfish, but simply needing the cloudiness in his lungs. Needing the haze around the edges of his vision. Needing a fire under his skin. He blows the smoke out in one long, heavy breath, and Eliott whines, shifting under his weight.

“Patience,” Lucas clucks, taking another drag. Eliott’s eyes look blown out, and if the squirming of his hips are anything to go by, Lucas doesn’t think it’s just from the joint. Lucas smiles as he releases the smoke again, aiming it into Eliott’s gaped mouth. Lucas is back in the game, and he’s just made his move. After the weird panic of before, it’s nice to return to control. This is what he’s fucking good at.

“Lucas,” Eliott whimpers, helpless under Lucas’ restraint. His legs locking him down, his hands near either side of his head, his breath crowding his skin. He’s under Lucas completely. 

Lucas decides he can spare some mercy – though to be honest, he also can’t handle Eliott squirming under him anymore. He offers the joint to Eliott, who takes it in a mix of relief and frustration – it’s not all he wants. Eliott doesn’t break eye contact for a single moment as he sucks in a drag, and now its Lucas’ turn to drop his mouth, eyes lidded. He’s got a fucking hot first year under his legs, lying on the hood of his Benz, smoking his weed, staring at him like _that._ His hips stutter.

Eliott’s eyes brighten when he realizes what he’s done, and he releases his round of smoke, a giggle coming after. _Cocky._ Lucas leans back down and breathes heavy over Eliott’s mouth, just at the edge of his lips, and it takes three tons of restraint to hold back from kissing him, but the tease is worth it. In a snap, Eliott is back to a whining, shaking mess, and Lucas almost laughs at how easy it is. 

“I’ll kiss you in a moment,” Lucas whispers with a smirk, pulling back again, and uncurling the joint from Eliott’s grip, “just as soon as I get my next hit.” 

This time, Lucas decides to go in for the kill. His moves are careful, deliberate, methodically slow. He settles the length of his torso onto Eliott’s, holding himself up with his elbows on either side of his pinned body. He brings his wrist up to his mouth to take in one last hit from the joint, exposing his neck as he breathes it in. After his lungs are filled, he throws the joint onto the top of his car, forgotten, and holds his breath long enough to position his face directly over Eliott’s, their lips inches apart. Then, his final knockout move – he breathes out the smoke directly into Eliott’s waiting mouth, grinding his hips down in the same movement. 

Eliott’s eyes nearly roll back into his head. Lucas decides he’s won enough.

He collapses into him, pressing the longest, hardest kiss he’s given in a long fucking time to Eliott’s eager lips. Eliott responds instantly, body awakening and syncing their movements, hands whipping up to sneak under Lucas’ t-shirt and grip his waist. A groan escapes between the two of them – Lucas thinks it was his own, but he can’t be sure – punctuated by the movement of Lucas’ knees making the car hood warble. 

Eliott breaks off, cheeks flushed, in order to say “had to be on the car, huh?”

Lucas wants to laugh but he’s so filled with heady fucking _want_ that he can’t do anything else other than slam back into Eliott, forcing his tongue into his mouth and licking it open. Lucas moves one of his hands from their spots on the car hood to grip Eliott’s hair, pulling him up into him, more into him, more, fucking more. No other thought is running through his head other than _more._

Eliott lets out a whine, one of his pretty whines, and Lucas responds by stirring his hips against him. They kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss, recurrent gasps their only source of air. Eliott keeps running his soft fucking hands across the skin of Lucas’ back, gripping his sides with a force, and Lucas keeps clutching Eliott’s hair, the sides of his face, his fingers brushing over his ears and neck. Their hands can’t stop touching each other. Lucas doesn’t think hands were made for anything fucking else. 

Lucas arches his back and presses into Eliott, sliding their hips against each other. Eliott finally, _finally_ offers a drawn-out moan, and it hums against Lucas’ tongue. Lucas breaks from his lips to trail down his jaw, nosing into his neck, sucking on the heated blood under his skin. Eliott’s fingers stutter against Lucas’ waist as he bites a gentle mark into his neck, licking the wound after it’s done. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Eliott gasps as Lucas licks a long, wet stripe up his throat, his hands slithering down his sides and resting at the hem of his shirt. He curls his fingers under the material and begins to push it up, his hands shaking with how much he wants it. “You’re so fucking…” Eliott starts, just as Lucas’ hands skim past his ribs.

There’s a startling buzz. A ringtone. The moment shatters.

Lucas opens his eyes and leans back, his fingers abandoning their job of raising Eliott’s shirt. Eliott pulls it back down quickly, face red, as Lucas reaches into his back pocket to pull out his phone. 

It’s a text from his mom. _I saw the devil bend over you… God sent me a message. Be careful, my son. I love you._ Lucas is yanked back down to earth in the blink of an eye. 

He looks over Eliott, his still gasping chest, his cheeks flaming red, a love bite blooming on his neck. Without warning, the broad fucking daylight hits Lucas’ previously hazy eyes, and he squints, unable to handle the brightness. Eliott’s face falls at the abrupt change in mood, and his hands retreat from under Lucas’ shirt.

“Everything alright?” he asks, voice quiet, tentative. Lucas suddenly feels very, very small.

“Yeah, sorry…” Lucas mumbles, forcing his body to move. He climbs off of Eliott, jumping off of the car hood, and can barely meet his eye when Eliott sits up, brow worried, face cast in a frown. “Sorry. I just… need to take you home.” 

Eliott’s breath shakes. “Oh.” Lucas feels so shitty.

He forces his face to remain straight, stoic, even though he wants to cringe. Even though he faintly wants to cry in frustration. He opens the driver door and ducks inside, turning the keys that are still in the ignition. Eliott seems to still be shell-shocked for a few moments, before he slowly crawls off the hood, which groans again with all the weight relieved. Lucas grips the steering wheel as the passenger door opens and Eliott drops into the seat, and he shifts into reverse and pulls away from the meadow. He feels too embarrassed to say goodbye to it, like he usually does, with Eliott in the car. 

The return to the city couldn’t be more of a polar opposite from the venture out. Lucas absent-mindedly switches on the radio, just to fill the terrible fucking silence that has invaded every corner. The uneasy, unbridled silence. The only words spoken between them in the entire hour drive back to the heart of Paris is Lucas asking for Eliott’s home address and Eliott providing it. The sky darkens, turns purple, then navy blue, and Lucas wishes he could watch how the night casts its light on Eliott’s face. But he doesn’t want to look at him. Not when the tension is so burdened. Not when all he can think about is how much he wants to fuck someone to make this all go away.

He pulls up to an apartment complex, parking on the other side of the street. The air in the car is still so heavy, Lucas could swim through it. Maybe that’s why every movement of Eliott’s seems unbearably slow; unbuckling his seatbelt, grabbing his fallen jacket by his feet, opening the car door… Lucas, in a quick, clumsy impulse, grabs Eliott’s leg before he can get out. 

He surges forward and plants a kiss on Eliott’s lips, brief and wanting. Eliott jerks from the shock, but his lips return it before Lucas pulls back again. Lucas stares at him for a moment, hoping he’ll understand. Hoping he’ll understand what he’s trying to convey. That he’s sorry. Lucas turns back to face the road, shifting the car back into drive and pressing down on the brake. 

He can see Eliott is speechless out of the corner of his eye, but luckily, he takes the hint. He closes his mouth in surrender and crawls out of the car. As soon as he’s on the curb and the door is shut, Lucas releases the brake and drives away. His blood pulses in his fingers as he grips the steering wheel, clenching his jaw. He doesn’t want to look at Eliott in the rearview mirror, knowing it’ll just make the guilty curl in his gut even worse. 

So he doesn’t look back. He just drives on. He runs through multiple memorized addresses in his head… _who’d be up for it on a school night? Who has he left on good enough terms with? Who is quick? Who is emotionless?_

He settles on a boy who he remembers was particularly good at getting his hands _just_ right, and begins navigating the maze of dark Paris streets to their apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have some angst :)
> 
> tumblr: summerhyuck


	3. iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I know I j u s t barely updated but I can’t seem to get my hands to stop writing. This Elu drought hasn’t helped matters at all, and neither has being in the Sharing Love GC– yall are enablers. (ily all ❤️️). But anyway. Here’s another part! I might continue to ride this wave and keep posting more, or it’ll be a month before I even touch it again. We’ll have to see. 
> 
> Enjoy: Angst, le gang interaction, Meme King Arthur, and Ouba the dog <3

It takes three knocks for the boy to answer the door. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, silently questioning. Lucas tries to rack his brain to remember when the last time he saw him was… if it ended on good terms. If he recalls correctly, this kid blew him a few months ago at Daphne’s Christmas party. He did a little trick with his hands that, well… anyway, Lucas is here. He looks at the boy purposefully, cocking his hip for good measure to bold the point. The boy smiles, and steps back, gesturing to the inside of his apartment to welcome him in.

Lucas remembers his name. He does. It’s just not relevant right now. What’s important is that he’s blonde and brown-eyed and ripped, and doesn’t look at all like… someone else. 

As soon as Lucas is inside and the door is closed, he crowds the boy back against the door and immediately latches their lips together. The boy responds immediately, holding his neck between his hands and guiding his tongue into his mouth. 

It’s hot, he’s hot, Lucas is hot. The boy turns them around and pushes Lucas against the wall, sucking along his neck as he presses a hand down his stomach and settles it in between his legs. Lucas focuses his eyes on a distant wall as the boy opens his his jeans and wraps a hand around him, breathing heavily. He dissects the details of the wall: it’s painted a yellowish tan, and spackled, from floor to ceiling. There’s a desk pushed up against it, an antique one, faded wood and ornate handles and all that. Pictures hang in random places all along the wall, and the disorganization bothers him. That picture needs to go there… and that picture should go _there_ …

Lucas comes without realizing, a physical sensation only. He, quite suddenly, is acutely aware of the boy’s hot breath on his neck, hand still cramped up in his boxers. A shiver passes through him; not the good kind. He needs to… he’s got to… there was something with his mother… his brain feels muddled, a pool, too weighted, pressurized. He has to get out of here.

The boy is pressing kisses to him again, and grabbing Lucas’ hands and guiding them down to his own dick. Lucas recoils, breaking away from his grip. The boy’s eyes jerk open, shocked, his lips pulling down into a deep frown. “What is it?”

“…Sorry,” Lucas gets out, mouth completely dry. He zips his pants back up in one movement. His head prickles, the beginnings of the headache. “I have to go. Thanks for, you know.”

And he feels around for the doorknob behind him, twisting it frantically and bolting out the door before the boy can begin to spew the vitriol he was clearly building up. 

Lucas trips on the way back to the car, stumbling over his own feet. He shakes his head, violent, jerking himself awake. _Snap the fuck out of it._ He manages to reach his car and he drops his forehead against the roof, grounding himself for a moment. He _has_ to go check on his mom. He should’ve done that first, instead of… God. He can’t believe what a selfish fuck he is sometimes. Wasn’t he so up his own ass this morning, saying he’s never desperate? That boys always come to him and not the other way around? He wants to spit at himself with the irony. 

He shakes himself to clear his thoughts, and climbs back in his car. His mind is numb, a blank slate, as he begins the familiar drive to his mother’s house.

***

The house is completely dark when Lucas opens the door. He switches on the light to the living room, eyes scanning… it looks as he’d expect it to be: floors scrubbed, all the books in the shelves neatly stacked, everything symmetrical and perfect. Not a speck of dust in sight. 

Impeccably clean.

“Mama?” Lucas calls softly, toeing off his shoes at the door before venturing further into the house. He spots a sudden movement in the corner of his eye, and he jerks, startled, before laughing at himself. It’s only Ouba. The little dog comes up to him, nuzzling her head into the sides of his shins. “Hi boy,” Lucas murmurs, bending down to scruff her white fur. “Where’s Mama, huh?”

Ouba whines when Lucas stands back up, wanting more petting. She soon realizes, though, that Lucas is distracted, and flounces off back to her dog bed in the kitchen, as if to say, _your loss._ Lucas shakes his head fondly at the sass, the gall of his little dog, but focuses his attention back to the task at hand. He checks the kitchen after watching Ouba settle back into sleep, and it’s just like living room: spotless.

Same is the hallway that leads down to two bedroom doors, one being his childhood room, and the other being his mother’s. “Mama?” he calls again, the door coming closer. He braces himself before he opens it, still, even after all this time, not quite able to shake the fear drilled into him from infancy. _Let’s leave Mommy alone. We don’t go in Mommy’s room._

He twists the knob and slowly walks into the dark room. He can see the steady, breathing figure of his mother, twisted up under an old quilt, only her dark hair visible as she faces the opposite wall. Lucas watches her silently, taking a moment for himself. Sometimes, it hits him out of nowhere, quite unexpectedly, that this is his mother. The mother he lived with for sixteen years of his life. The mother who has screamed in his face for making a mess in the kitchen sink or trailing dirt home after elementary football practice. She’s there, lying under the covers, asleep. 

Lucas sits at the edge of her bed, placing his palm on her side. “Mama,” he whispers, “mama, wake up.” He can feel her stir under his palm, and she groans sleepily, pulling her arm out from under the quilt and covering his hand with her own.

“Lucas? Are you here?” she asks quietly, voice still thick with sleep. “Your hands are cold.”

“I know,” Lucas says patiently, rubbing his thumb over her hand. “I’ve been out. Everything good here? Ouba been taking care of you?”

She hums noncommittally, just slightly nodding her head. “I had a dream about you…”

“I know,” Lucas blurts quickly, cutting her off. “But I’m fine. I’m here, and safe. I’m going to go get you a glass of water, okay?” There’s no response other than a quiet snore. She must be back to sleep. Lucas sits there a while longer. His head swims in the dark room, mind stirring up from the dust painful shards of memories, as they present themselves in bits and pieces around the room… but he swallows it all down. He focuses on her breathing, and how it feels against his hand. 

Eventually, like a long, relieving sigh, he stands up and leaves her room. He thinks he should stay. Be here to check on her again. He runs over tomorrow’s classes in head, and nothing would be difficult to miss. A vague plan begins to form of what he’ll do tomorrow, to get her up and involved – he thinks of Ouba slumbering away in the kitchen corner and makes a note to take her on a walk, too. 

He passes by his childhood bedroom and the thought to sleep in there for the night doesn’t even cross his mind. He hasn’t opened that door in two years, not since he left. Instead, he walks straight to the linen closet in the middle of the hallway and pulls out a folded blanket, and ambles to the living room couch, suddenly dead tired, down to his bones. It takes a few minutes of staring blankly at the ceiling, but his eyes eventually fall and he drifts to sleep.

In her room, his mother mumbles and stirs from an uneasy dream. 

***

_Le Gang – last message at 12:17_

_Arthur: You here today @Lucas ?_

_Basile: Fuck guys I saw the hottest girl this morning going to spanish_

_Lucas: No. At my mother’s house._

_Basile: her hair was brown in a ponytail and she had bangs_

_Yann: Everything okay?_

_Basile: and her shirt had a white collar and her jeans were so fucking tight i think im in love_

_Lucas: Yes. Fine. Just spending a day with her._

_Arthur: just bc you want to fuck someone again for the first time it doesnt mean youre in love baz_

_Yann: Ok. Let me know how it goes_

_Basile: Hey fuck you. Its not the first time._

_Arthur: oh im glad that, in that whole ass insult,_ thats _what you took offense to_

_Lucas: @Arthur leave baz alone. he doesnt quite yet get that wanting to fuck someone and wanting to get fucked are two different desires_

_Arthur: lmaooo_

_Yann: you guys are dumb. im bouncing. i have an assignment to work on anyway cause yknow im at SCHOOL_

_Basile: why are you guys like this to me. what have i done_

_Arthur: exist_

_Lucas: ill humor you baz. do you know her name?_

_Basile: not sure. i think i heard her friend say it, possibly… it might have been amy or ellie or something. Im pretty sure it ended with an e_

_Arthur: sounds like the start of a great relationship_

_Basile: hold up i wouldnt go that far yet. i only just noticed her and she’s hot._

_Lucas: romantic_

_Basile: fuck I havent fucked in so long_

_daphne was almost a year ago already damn_

_Arthur: afsdfdsfa has it really been that long? I hadnt even realized_

_im sorry but thats a bit pathetic_

_Basile: well there were issues if you dont fucking remember_

_which I know you do you asshole_

_and it hasn’t been_ that _long. there’s been some in between_

_Lucas: masturbation doesnt count pal_

_Arthur: rip_

_Basile: alright mr fuck every boy i see. not everyones passion in life is getting into as many pants as possible_

_Lucas: 🖕_

_Arthur: oh hey btw hows it going with eliott? I saw you outside bio yesterday 👀 youre shameless._

_Lucas: good. Hes keen._

_Arthur: what did you do yesterday?_

_Lucas: I drove him around the city and we listened to music._

_Basile: you do the_ dumbest _shit and you still get so many boys without any fucking effort. Life is unfair_

_Lucas: It’s gay privilege, sorry_

_Basile: please teach me your tips. How long have we been friends and youve selfishly kept it all to yourself_

_Lucas: ok. Step one is to be a boy. I guess you're close enough_

_Arthur: lmaoo_

_Basile: 😒😒_

_Lucas: step two is to fuck other boys. You lose._

_Basile: alright whatever. I was genuinely looking for advice but ok_

_Lucas: there's not really advice to give. you're either good at it or you're not._

_Arthur: Did you guys hear about Alex’s party on Friday? We have to go_

_id like to see basile try and pull a boy_

_Basile: of course we’re going to alex’s when do we ever skip parties_

_fuck you guys maybe I will_

_Lucas: and leave poor amy/ellie in the dust?_

_Arthur: oh btw @Lucas alexia told me yesterday_

_in our BIO class, you know, the one you have too_

_that daphne knows something weird about eliott_

_Like rumors of why he transferred schools in the middle of the year_

_Lucas: ok why would I care_

_Arthur: uhhh cause youre fucking him maybe_

_Lucas: not that its your business but we haven’t fucked. and anyway it doesn't mean I have to hear rumors about him that probably aren't even true_

_Arthur: alright valid_

_Basile: god im hungry whats the plan for lunch today_

_Arthur: idk its yanns choice today. Youll have to ask him when he stops being a nerd_

_Lucas: i'm leaving too. do good in school and all that_

_Arthur:_

***

The rest of Tuesday passes by uneventfully. He takes Ouba on that walk. He spends the day with his mother, probing her with gentle questions, trying to figure where she’s at in her head. Apart from the house being kept freakishly clean - though that’s hardly unusual behavior for her – she seems normal. As normal as she can get. They play cards together, and watch some TV, Ouba curled up in the space between them on the couch. She doesn’t make much effort to join into conversation, and Lucas gives up after a while. He makes her dinner around 19hr, and watches her, carefully, out of the corner of his eye, to make sure she eats it. 

By all accounts, she’s doing fine. Lucas has to wonder if the text last night was a one-off incident, a fluke... even though he still bristles with suspicion, there’s nothing else he can do other than let it go.

He leaves her sitting on the living room couch, immersed in a TV show, kissing her on the cheek before walking out the door. For what could be the millionth time since he left the house for good, he feels a flood of gratitude for Ouba. His anxiety always lessens, however slightly, when he remembers his mother is not completely alone in that house. 

He finally gets home, to his own bed, at just past 20hr. He doesn’t see anybody. Manon is probably out with the girls, and Mika off doing who knows what. It’s a relief, honestly, to not have to explain anything. It was a burden enough to feel it the first time; no need to go over it again for no reason other than _clarity._

He crashes onto his bed, glad to shove his face in his own pillows that stink slightly of sweat, rather than the pillows at his mothers, that burn his nose with how unbearably clean they are. He falls asleep without effort, no accompanying dreams.

When he wakes up, hours later, it’s still dark outside his bedroom window. He groans and maneuvers his hand under his body to his back pocket to grab his phone and check the time. 6:27. His alarm was due to go off in a half hour anyway.

He drops his phone at the edge of the bed and turns to face the ceiling, lost in thought. He realizes, with a twisting pang of guilt, that he hasn’t thought about Eliott since he left him on the curb. He remembers their brief goodbye kiss, short and frustrating and not nearly communicative as Lucas would have liked it to be. 

He closes his eyes and sighs. He’ll have to find him somewhere today. Apologize for real. A low heat starts to build when he thinks about seeing him again… his rosy cheeks and sweet pink tongue and hair sticking up in all directions. His long, pretty neck. That stupid brown jacket. But he forces himself to push it away – he needs to clear the air first.

He picks up his phone again, to check his messages. One from Manon, asking where he’d been all day. One from Yann, asking how his mom’s doing. A stupid meme from Arthur. He sends them all brief, noncommittal answers that get the job done and sits up, running a hand through his hair. It’s dirty and gross. He wonders if he has time to shower and wash it… deciding he’s too lazy.

He’ll just wear a hat instead.

***

He finds out where Eliott eats lunch.

The Boys had decided to take their usual spot in the cafeteria to outside, in the tepid and breezy March air. Lucas, Arthur and Yann all have room on one of the benches – Basile was ousted and forced to sit on the cement in front of them. They’re all chatting about something dumb, and Basile keeps trying to steer the conversation back to his girl from yesterday – he found out her real name, Chloe, apparently – to no avail.

Lucas is detached, only humming occasionally to show that he’s alive and breathing and not a brick wall. But he doesn’t engage with any of their jokes or jabs. He scans the courtyard, wondering if Eliott really is a hippie kid who eats outside to feel communal with the grass or whatever. And then he smirks at himself when he remembers he literally brought him to a meadow the other day. 

One to talk.

“Hey, Lucas,” Arthur says, pushing at his arm. Lucas raises an eyebrow and pulls his arm away, annoyed.

“What?”

“I think you’ve got a stalker,” Arthur answers smugly, pointing to a place across the courtyard. Lucas rolls his eyes and looks at the spot, and he starts, taken aback.

It’s Eliott, wearing a huge scarf, hair the messiest he’s ever seen it. He’s staring at Lucas, boring him down, even from across the fucking courtyard. Lucas has never seen his eyes that longing, that _dark._ He said he would apologize and fix whatever happened on Monday before he got back to fucking around with him, never liking tension with his hookups. But he’s ready to throw all of that out the fucking window when he sees the look on Eliott’s face.

He wants to go over there and blow him in the courtyard right fucking now. He clenches his fists.

Basile looks over too, putting in his two cents even though nobody asked. “He looks like he wants to fuck you and murder you at the same time.” 

Arthur laughs, shoving lightly at him on the ground. “Looks like you still don’t understand the difference between wanting to fuck someone and wanting to _get_ fucked.”

Lucas’ mouth is dry. He’s _this_ close to popping a boner in the middle of the fucking schoolyard. “I have to go,” he says absent-mindedly, standing up and walking over to Eliott’s table, in a trance. Eliott looks away, cheeks flushing once he realizes he’s coming over, and says a quick goodbye to his friends before standing up from the table. Lucas picks up his speed, but Eliott is so fast and so fucking long-legged that he has to run to catch up.

“Hey, hey!” Lucas says, grabbing onto Eliott’s sleeve. He stops in his tracks, but he won’t meet his eyes, cheeks dark and enflamed rather than dusky pink. It’s not right. Lucas pulls him over under one of the balconies surrounding the courtyard, concealing them from the rest of the courtyard behind a winding column. “I can’t catch up when you’re that fast.”

Eliott won’t meet his eyes. He mumbles. “Sorry. I wasn’t meaning… to stare at you like that. I just couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.”

Lucas wrinkles his eyebrows in confusion. “What? Why are you sorry?”

Eliott swallows nervously, staring at the ground. “Cause I… I know that you ended things, and so I’m… I’m sorry. I’ll let it go and I’ll stop bothering you.”

Lucas doesn’t think his brow can furrow any farther. “What are you talking about?”

Eliott finally looks up at him, and there’s a slight challenge in his eyes. He won’t be played. “Cause I’ve heard what you do. And I’ve realized that I’m the next… one.”

Lucas almost wants to laugh in disbelief but it would be entirely inappropriate, so he shakes his head instead. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but nobody tells me what to do. I do whatever the fuck I want, and I don’t care what people think of me. Why would I be done with you when I’ve only just gotten started?”

Eliott blushes again now, but it’s much softer. Less mortified. A ghost of a smile pricks his lips. “What happened on Monday, then?” he asks quietly, shyly.

“There was just some drama with the boys, someone thought there was gonna be a fight,” Lucas lies smoothly, adjusting the snapback on his head. “It was nothing. I just had to go.”

Eliott narrows his eyes, but looks at Lucas sincerely, all over. His eyes linger along the length of his arms, one of them flexed from where it leans against the column, before settling on the snapback. “Okay. Sorry for freaking out, and believing rumors, and…”

Lucas smiles, glad to see him happy again, glad to see the storm clouds leave his eyes. “You’re good. So good. Did you miss me?” he teases, and Eliott blushes but doesn’t answer. Instead, he flicks the brim of Lucas’ snapback at the back of his head.

“Never seen you in one of these before. I like it.” 

“Yeah?” Lucas says, perking up at Eliott’s touch. His fingers had ghosted along the hair peeking out from the sides of his hat, and he nearly shivered. 

“I could say the same for you,” Lucas continues, reaching forward and holding the scarf wound around Eliott’s neck, gently running it between his fingers. “I like it. It’s cute.” Eliott bites away a smile at that, and satisfaction brims in Lucas. Compliments always land. “Any reason why?”

Eliott, finally relaxed from the tension before, limbs and posture easing up from their defenses, flashes his eyes in reply. His mouth pulls into a faint smirk. “Not in particular,” he whispers, reaching up to loosen his scarf and pull it down enough to expose the side of his throat. Lucas leans in, curious, and at the sight, his knees weaken.

It’s the lovebite he left on him. Lucas could’ve sworn he was gentle, but it’s dark and red and obviously bruised. And it’s _there,_ on Eliott’s skin, right fucking there for anyone to see if they just moved his scarf. _Fuck._ It looks so good on him. Lucas’ teeth marks look so good on him. He wonders how long it will take to fade, and a wave of misery washes over him at the thought. 

“Want to hear a secret?” Eliott says lowly, after a sharp intake of air, as if he’s readying himself for something. Lucas’ gaze snaps from his neck back up to his eyes, and he watches him carefully. His lip and eyebrow quirk at the same time. It’s a cute tic – Lucas never noticed it before. 

“Hit me,” Lucas smiles back with a challenge in his brow, smirking like always, but it quickly falls when Eliott crowds forward, looming over him. Their height difference has never been more apparent – Eliott is fucking _tall._ Lucas swallows.

“I had to cover it up with a scarf for my own sake,” Eliott whispers. Their eyes stay locked – not for a single split of a second do they break. “Every time I passed a mirror and saw it there, or every time I would feel it sting, I’d start to think of you – or parts of you,” he corrects, and skims a hand over Lucas’ groin, “to be specific. And I couldn’t take it anymore.” Lucas has gone fucking _numb,_ and Eliott laughs, the shit, pleased at his reaction. “Not in public, at least.”

Lucas closes his eyes. He’s really gonna have to will himself not to drag this boy to the ground and fuck him right here and now, huh. It takes a few moments – possibly more than that, whatever –to regain his composure, even his breath. He opens his eyes again, and smiles in delight when he realizes that a faint blush still warms Eliott’s cheeks. 

“You little fuck,” he huffs, tickling briskly at Eliott’s sides, “pretending like you were all shy and sorry about us being done. I bet you practiced that.”

Eliott looks down, a flushed but pleased smile on his open mouth. “Maybe.”

Lucas’ hands, from their resting place against Eliott’s ribs, grip the flaps of his jacket, pulling him closer. “Practice makes perfect, doesn’t it?”

Eliott leans his forehead into Lucas’, and they stay in that position for a brief, quiet minute – just breathing against each other, eyes closed, Lucas still hanging onto his jacket. 

“When will I see you again?” Eliott mumbles, barely audible. 

Lucas warms at the question, so sincere, and shrugs. “A friend of ours is hosting a party this weekend. You going?”

Eliott smiles, pleased, nodding eagerly. “Yes. I’ll find you there.”

“It’s a deal,” Lucas says brightly, offering his hand to shake, which Eliott takes gladly. Their palms are soft against each other. He remembers how those hands felt the other day, skating up his back, and he shudders.

Suddenly, Eliott turns his head around to trace a sound, probably hearing his name. His friends must be wondering how he’s managed to score Lucas again. He looks back at Lucas guiltily, blushing. Such a pretty pretty blush. It’s only been a day, but Lucas had missed it. “Sorry. I gotta go.”

Lucas smiles as he watches him retreat. His movements are a complete fucking contradiction, somehow awkward and gangly while managing to be graceful at the same time. He walks like he talks – sweet, shy, but with an edge of biting confidence beginning to claw to the surface. Lucas watches him walk all the way down the hall, meeting his friends who wait for him there, and he doesn’t break away until Eliott disappears down a turn. He smiles and grips his backpack straps, heading to his next class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: summerhyuck


	4. iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm not gonna lie... this is pretty shameless. It’s inspired by [this](https://i1.wp.com/fashiongrunge.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/000008mdf.jpg) picture (nsfw, not really, but actually _really_ ) and serves as a wish fulfillment for me and my fellow nasty gals in the Sharing Love GC. I love you all 😘
> 
> Please nobody come after me, thank you aksflsdf

Lucas spends Thursday afternoon catching up on homework. There’s a bitch of a lab write-up to do for biology, a discussion board assignment for French literature, notes he has to complete for English. It’s a hard knock life.

Manon is cooking herself dinner in the kitchen, where he sits now, needing a change in scenery from his room. She hums while she cooks, checking her phone occasionally while whatever is in the pot takes its time. Whenever Lucas loses his train of thought, he’ll look up and watch her for a moment, smiling. 

“What are you cooking, again?” he asks her absent-mindedly, finishing a sentence on his paper. 

She answers without turning around. “Pesto penne. Dinner for one.”

Lucas snorts and raises his eyebrows in mock affront. “That was cold.”

“An eighteen year old should really learn know how to cook for themselves by now,” she sing-songs, teasing, and Lucas can hear her smile in her voice. 

“Of course,” Lucas concedes, generous, warm, “but you always do it so much better.”

She finally turns around to roll her eyes at him, and he grins. “Charmer,” she mumbles, as she turns back to the pot, and Lucas stares at her fondly for a few more beats before returning to his paper. 

It’s quiet, after then, the only sounds in the room the scratch of Lucas’ pen and the occasional flip of a page, and the pasta bubbling away in the pot on the stove. It’s easy. It’s comfort. This, here with Manon and Mika, is his peace. It’s not the house where he spent his childhood, filled with aching, harrowing memories and emptiness; this place, here, is where he’s found his home. 

The two of them enjoy the serenity for a long while more, until a loud bang from the front door and the sound of a dropped backpack onto the living room floor announces that Mika is home. An echoing “hellooo?” is called out, and both Lucas and Manon answer in reply.

Mika walks into the kitchen, cheeks pink and hair swept from the wind outside, and quickly makes himself comfortable at the table, slapping his hands down in front of Lucas to get his attention.

“Lucas,” he says, serious, hinging on desperation. 

Lucas looks up, annoyed. He’s almost done with the lab write up and now he’s been sidetracked. “What?”

“Cutie Lucas, baby Lulu,” Mika tuts, voice sweetening, and Lucas rolls his eyes, knowing what’s coming: a favor to ask. 

“What do you want?” he says, bothered, just wanting to focus on this stupid assignment. 

“Okay. Listen. You too, Manon,” Mika says seriously, and turns her head to tune in. “A while ago, I met the cutest guy in the world in my psych class. I’m serious,” he says when Lucas snickers, bopping his head, “he’s hot and sweet and smart and I’m really fucking whipped. I’ve never wanted to suck a dick more.”

Manon groans and wrinkles her nose, while Lucas just laughs. 

“So anyway, we’ve been chatting each other up a few times, whatever, it’s been good. But today we actually had a long conversation because we had to start a term project with a partner, something about how long it will take to learn a new skill, I don’t know, I never fucking pay attention in that class.”

“Your work ethic never ceases to impress,” Manon says, condescending, but Mika waves her off and continues.

“So he came over to me in the cutest fucking way, he slid in the seat next to me and fixed and played with his hair and… anyway that’s not important, what’s important is that he suggested we do something with music for the project, like learning a new instrument, and practicing it every day to see how long it will take us. And I was speechless so I just nodded my head along like a dicksick idiot without remembering to mention that I can’t play any instrument worth fucking shit. But that’s the project he signed us up for and now we have to track it and share our progress and stuff and basically, I’m telling you Lucas that you need to teach me a song on the piano.”

Mika ends with a gasp of breath, staring at Lucas as his brain processes this request. He narrows his eyes and shakes his head, supremely annoyed.

“What the fuck are you saying? I can’t teach you a song on the piano, I haven’t touched it in… and anyway, I’m not a good teacher.”

“But you are!” Mika pleads, on the edge of a whine, and Lucas really wishes he had stayed in his room to study after all. “It hasn’t been that long, I heard you play a few months ago! You’re still amazing at it! Appreciate that compliment because I hardly ever do that for you!”

Lucas rolls his eyes and slumps back in his chair, pen and assignment long abandoned. “Mika, I do not have the time or the patience to teach you piano. And I’m not that good myself, so stop trying to get in my pants. Figurative pants,” he corrects, when Manon snorts. 

“Lucas, I am begging you, it is not your pants I care about, but this boy’s. We will never, ever fuck if I fail this assignment. Do you want that for me? Is this the life you want to condemn me to? Manon, would you ever forgive me if I prevented you from getting major dick?”

Manon, watching over this exchange with barely contained mirth in her eyes, shakes her head soberly. “I would never.”

“See?” Mika waves his hand at her, before slapping it back on the table. “Cockblocking is one of the most serious crimes, Lucas. And if you don’t help me out, it’ll be like, cockblocking twice removed.”

Lucas looks between Mika and Manon, who shakes with laughter, and then back to Mika. He bites away the tiniest smile, himself, at the complete earnestness in Mika’s eyes, though he still prickles with annoyance. “Fine, fine,” he surrenders, and Mika smiles triumphantly, fist pumping in the air. “But you owe me, fucking big time.”

“Of course, my baby Lulu,” Mika sings, standing up from the table and plopping a kiss on Lucas’ head before leaving the room. Lucas shoves him away, muttering to himself, picking his pen back up. But then Mika peeks his head past the hallway, catching his attention again.

“We shall start tomorrow, my wise one, my knight and prince. I already have the song picked out.”

Lucas flicks his middle finger at him, annoyance slowly, _slowly_ giving way to fondness. Mika beams at him before disappearing again to head to his room, Manon giggles before returning to the stove to stir her pesto, and Lucas drops his head back to his assignment, focused now without effort.

And life ticks sweetly on inside their little home. 

***

It’s fucking cold outside, and Lucas wants to kill Basile for suggesting they walk to Alexia’s house instead of just taking a fucking Uber. He had already been a little too high from the entire joint they shared (shared is a strong word… Lucas smoked most of it) between them back at Arthur’s house, and weed plus exercise plus freezing is never a good combination. Lucas sways where he stands, as they wait for light to let them through a busy crosswalk.

Arthur and Yann either have an astronomically high tolerance for the cold or the excitement for the coming party is giving them rose-tinted glasses. Very strong ones. And Basile is acting like a clown as usual, so Lucas can never tell if the weed has hit him or not. But he’s feeling a bit shit, and he kind of just wants to abandon this party and go to bed.

“Oh, Lulu,” Arthur coos, noticing his grump, “maybe you should really start taking it easy on the drugs. I know plenty of people who have to start cutting it back as they age. Like my fifty year old aunt.”

“Fuck off,” Lucas grumbles, annoyed that Basile bursts into laughter because it really wasn’t that funny. The light finally switches and they walk on, Lucas the only one stumbling between them all. He feels supremely left out, watching the Boys rib each other and giggling, clearly buzzing. So far, he’s only experienced the unfun parts of a high, and he’d really like the good stuff to kick in, please and thanks. Like the feeling of barreling forward through time; that could come in handy right about now.

Lucas disengages from their conversations from then on, lost in his own head. Thoughts of his mother come to the forefront, and he shakes his head forcefully, trying to get rid of them. Not a good road to go down, pre-party. Instead, he forces himself to think about the lab write-up he finished yesterday, and how he’ll have to ask Imane to go over it with him…

Finally, after what could have easily been _hours_ , they reach Alexia’s house. Even from this distance, there’s already a pulse in the air from the bass-heavy music blasting inside. Lucas is stubborn, liking to stay in one emotion at a time. But even he admits, his heart picks up with excitement. He can feel his toes starting to warm up.

Daphne is at the door with her girlfriend, Margot, acting as the bouncer. They all greet and hug her as they approach, except for Basile, who just waves awkwardly. “Doing well?” she says brightly, flirting fingers along Margot’s waist. Lucas sees Basile’s face fall out the corner of the eye and he stealth smacks him in the stomach.

“Like always,” Lucas charms, while Basile rubs his stomach and glares. He’ll bite and play over-nice, to make up for Basile being an ass. “How are you, Margot?”

She looks up abruptly from playing with Daphne’s hands and nods her head. “I’m great, Lucas,” she smiles. “I’ve been hearing the rumors, is it true you have a new boy?”

A thrill runs up Lucas’ spine when he suddenly remembers, in full fucking force, that he’s going to see Eliott tonight. He’d been so grumpy before, he’d nearly forgotten. “I don’t know,” he says with a wink, as the boys begin to walk into the party and he follows. “You’ll have to come find us and see.”

And they all pass through the door.

It’s deafening, and alive, bodies everywhere, beer bottles littering every surface in sight, a sea foam green haze floating in the air. Basslines thump almost painfully in his ears. Strobe lights flash, blackening over his eyes, shadows paint the walls, arms waving around like snakes in a pit. And, quite fucking suddenly, the weed hits Lucas like a sledgehammer, and a warmth spreads through him in a flood. 

His pupils blow, and he slinks into the party, his domain, the Boys following closely behind. 

***

They had danced for a while in the thick of the untamed crowd, losing themselves, becoming part of a giant, breathing mass. After the stress of yesterday’s homework, and the still thrumming, underlying anxiety he carries around for his mother everywhere he goes, it felt in-fucking-credible to become completely numb, no matter how temporary. To lose control.

But now, they’ve ventured out, heading to the kitchen as they always seem to do. Arthur is friends enough with Alexia that he can rummage through her fridge, looking for something to quell the munchies. Basile breaks off, determined to find his girl – Chloe, was that her name? – from the other day. They all tease him before he goes, reminding him in snickers of how to do this and how to do this when it comes to sex, and he flicks them a finger in response. Lucas laughs, head cloudy, feet sore, giddy from his high, and then he feels a breath on his neck.

He snaps backward, startled, and he freezes when he sees Eliott standing in front of him. He looks… fucking…

“Salut,” Eliott greets, unfairly charming, nodding his head at Arthur and Yann as well. Arthur’s hand, previously shoving grapes into his mouth from a bag in Alexia’s fridge, pauses, hand in midair as his mouth drops. Two sweet pink paint stripes are swiped over Eliott’s cheeks, a literal manifestation, now, of his constant blush. His staple brown jacket is gone, in favor of a tight black t-shirt, clinging to his every line. His sleeves are rolled up in a double fold, to reveal his biceps that spawn a web of veins running down through his forearms to the backs of his hands, just visible under his papery skin. Lucas’ mouth fucking waters.

“Salut,” Lucas nods in reply, eyes raking over him. His stomach twists with desire. 

“Hey, Eliott, right?” Arthur jumps in, pinching Lucas’ waist for being too distracted to introduce them. “Nice to meet you, dude. I’m Arthur and this is Yann.”

Eliott’s eyes flash in delight, as he reaches out for bro fives. “Nice to meet you guys.”

A silence befalls them, awkward only for a second, before Lucas charges forward and begins to guide Eliott away with a hand on his shoulder. “We’re going now, probably not to return. Have a good night, boys,” he salutes, and Arthur and Yann wave goodbye as they leave them, before bursting into laughter. Lucas doesn’t care what the fuck his friends think, doesn’t care if he’ll be mercilessly teased tomorrow. He only wants to be around Eliott for the rest of the night. He’s never going to take his eyes off him, not with those pink fucking stripes.

“That was nice,” Eliott giggles as they walk away, on the edge of a tease, and Lucas barely turns around to smile at him. His focus is on pulling them into the crowd. Once he’s satisfied with their spot - they’re not quite in the overbearing middle, but deep enough from the fringes that dancing bodies surround, bumping into them - he turns around and winds his hands around Eliott’s waist, pulling him close, swaying them in time with the music.

Eliott’s eyes darken at the contact, and his head drops to rest against Lucas’, breath heavy. “Fuck,” he whispers, lowly, just audible; it probably wasn’t meant for Lucas to hear. But he does, and he smirks, pleased, pulling him closer, lifting up his chin for a kiss. When their mouths connect, it’s desperate and gasping. Pouring. Making up for the hours they’ve been apart since their time in the meadow. Eliott is already whining and Lucas’ hands are already trembling with arousal as he slides them up Eliott’s back. 

He doesn’t know how he’ll make it through the rest of the night.

A low, heavy, thrumming beat begins in the background, a song change. Lucas can distantly hear the lyrics over the rush of blood in his ears– " _call your girlfriend, it’s time you had the talk_ " - but Eliott is teasing him with his kisses, opening his mouth against him for a fraction of a second before pulling back just as quickly, smiling, and Lucas is forced back into the moment, chasing after his mouth like a fool. He surges forward in frustration, and joins their lips again, snaking his hands up Eliott’s neck and into his hair, pulling it between his fingers. 

The song pounds away in their ears and skulls, and dancing bodies collide around them, but they kiss and they dance and they push and they pull, hardly ever coming up for air.

_”But you, just met somebody who…”_

***

Lucas is _fucked_ out of his mind. The near whole joint he smoked has completely settled into his bloodstream, making time run at half speed. Every touch lingers, every kiss lasts longer, and he can literally, honestly feel the blood beating under Eliott’s skin. They pulled away from the dancing crowd just a bit ago, Eliott saying he needed some water. Lucas watches him now, as he rummages through cupboards, looking for a cup, the pink streaks faded and smudged - most of the paint rubbed off on Lucas’ fingers. Dull, throbbing pangs of longing make their heady course through Lucas. He sits in forced patience, restrained against the counter, clenching his fists against his hips to prevent himself from climbing over Eliott and sucking his dick right fucking now in the middle of Alexia’s kitchen. He’s going slightly stir crazy. 

Eliott finally finds the cupboard that contains the cups and runs one under the kitchen sink faucet, knocking it back. Lucas watches his throat, eyes darkening, before suddenly, Eliott spits it out back into the sink, spit dribbling from his lips, a grimace left on his mouth.

And - oh fucking _no._ Lucas nearly collapses on the spot with the force of the wave of desire that sweeps through him, leaving him wasted in its wake.

“Ew, it tastes weird,” Eliott says, whiny and a bit childish, while Lucas’ knees are shaking. He scrutinizes his mouth, honing in on the sheen of spit still shining on Eliott’s lips. _Oh my god oh my god oh my god._ Suddenly, and terribly, he wants it more than _anything._

Eliott raises his eyebrows, taken aback, when he realizes the intensity of Lucas staring at him. “What?” he questions, almost in fear, and a wave of embarrassment washes over Lucas. What the fuck is he thinking? He can’t be serious, thinking of asking him that… that’s nothing he’s _ever_ wanted before in his life.

What has this kid done to him?

“Come with me,” Lucas whispers in his ear, voice cracking, as he lunges forward, taking his hand and leading him through the house, snaking between the clumps of people, through the misty haze of sea green smoke and sweat, down to the hallway that leads to Alexia’s basement. Eliott follows without complaint. 

Lucas opens the basement door and rushes down the steps, his body shaking in his excitement. They hurry through the basement's room, where at least three different couples make out and dry hump, scattered around. _No thanks._ They'll be needing a bit more privacy. Their final destination is a place that Lucas knows has a lock; a guest room in the corner of the basement that he's slept in before after nights spent out with the Girl Squad. As soon as the door is shut behind them, lock clicked, Lucas throws Eliott back against the door, crowding him, trapping him between his arms, sealing their mouths together. In a sudden, blunt thought, Lucas is reminded of the blonde boy from the night after the meadow… and he flinches, pushing the memory down with a rush of guilt. 

Eliott pulls away and opens his eyes, sensing something wrong. “Everything okay?” he asks breathlessly, and his cheeks are red, flaming, only the barest traces of the pink paint remaining. 

Lucas shakes his head, forcing a smile, leaning their foreheads together. 

“M’ good. How could I not be when you’re so fucking hot,” he breathes, and a rush of blood darkens Eliott’s cheeks further. They join together again, Lucas wedging a knee in between Eliott’s legs and nearly cricking his neck to reach up far enough to meet Eliott’s lips. He impulsively wants Eliott to turn him around and lift him up, slam him against the door, so he can wrap his legs around his waist again, like they did the first night they met… but instead, he breaks apart to whisper, “let’s go to the bed.”

They climb onto it, bumbling and clumsy, frantic to touch each other again. Lucas ends up underneath him, quivering, a wave of bright, blinding pleasure rolling through him every time Eliott grips his waist and pulls him up, and closer, taking more and more. One of Eliott’s hands slides down to Lucas’ thighs and hitches his leg around his back, holding it in place. Lucas groans, gripping one of Eliott’s upper arms as they kiss, pressing hard fingers into his skin, while stroking his touch down Eliott’s other forearm. Lucas cannot believe how soft and downy and absolutely fucking beautiful his skin feels; and suddenly, forcefully, he feels he would swear up and fucking down that his hands hadn’t fulfilled their purpose until this exact moment.

Eliott whines, pulling at the hem of Lucas’ shirt. Lucas gasps and laughs as Eliott’s fingers tickle over his waist, rucking his shirt up farther and farther. “A little desperate?” he teases, though he’s one to fucking talk. 

Eliott simply grunts and nods, smacking their lips together, too distracted to answer. Lucas concedes, and he would hold up his hands in a gesture of surrender if they weren’t busy at the moment. He raises his arms and flexes his stomach to lift himself up, allowing Eliott to rid him of his shirt. A heady thrill shoots through him when Eliott’s eyes darken at his body, unconsciously wetting his lips. Lucas is reminded of his spit, from earlier… and he whimpers, trying to bar it from his mind, with little success.

He reaches for Eliott’s own shirt as a distraction, pulling it up over his head. His hair fluffs around his ears from the muss, cute and curled, and the aching fucking _want_ that hasn’t left Lucas since Eliott first breathed down his neck tonight, dissapates, if only for a moment. Lucas reaches up and brushes his fingers through Eliott’s hair, smiling. He’s taken aback by how charmed he is. For the first time tonight, Eliott’s blush is pink and sweet instead of red and dark and bloodshot. They stare into each other’s eyes for a moment, quiet and still, before Eliott breaks it and leans down to press long, wet kisses down Lucas’ neck. 

Lucas is shell-shocked, thrown back into his arousal head first, and a quiet, strained moan escapes him. His eyes flutter shut and he and wills himself to revel in the present, in the feeling of Eliott’s teeth nibbling at his throat, of his hands running down his sides, of their bare skin sliding together. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this content, this easy, in a place other than his home. 

Eliott kisses down his neck, settling his mouth over Lucas’ pec, and sucking a love bite into his skin. Lucas jerks at the sting, rolling his head back, closing his eyes. It hurts, blood rushing to the surface, but is immediately soothed by Eliott’s warm, wet tongue. There’s a pinch in Lucas’ gut as he watches Eliott lick over the wound, and he begins to whimper helplessly as the spit gathers, pools, over the mark. A drop of spit rolls down from Lucas’ pec to the middle of his chest, his skin flaring with the cold trail it leaves. 

Lucas told himself, less than fifteen minutes ago, that he wouldn’t fucking say it. It’s so _embarrassing_ \- something he’s never wanted before, ever in his life. But he watches Eliott slather his spit all over his chest, and it slips out of him without thinking. No filter.

“Eliott. Spit in my mouth.” 

He wants to stuff the words back in the minute they come out, and, in a rare occurrence, a blush raises on his own cheeks. _Why can he never control himself? Stupid, stupid._ He’s about to jump in and laugh it off, brush it away as best he can, in an _attempt_ to reign his control back in. But Eliott’s got this look on his face, that makes Lucas pause.

Eliott is sweet and blushy and full of earnest youth. Lucas has seen him aroused, and whiny, and darkened when he’s full of desire - he thinks back to what he looked like a few days ago during lunch, staring at him from across the courtyard- but it’s always been with a slight brush of innocence, his inexperience making itself known in the red of his cheeks and flightiness in his eyes. But now. Eliott is hard, and cold, an almost frightening sense of determination steeling his face. 

A small, icy drip of fear shivers down his spine, and he’s never been more turned on his life.

Eliott slowly leans over him, looming, hands on either side of Lucas’ head, an uncanny recreation of their endeavor on the Benz hood. He purses his lips, and Lucas’ pupils blow when he realizes what he’s going to do. He can’t fucking believe this is about to happen to him right now. He can’t fucking believe it. “Fuck, Eliott, fuck,” he gasps desperately, opening his mouth, holding out his tongue, trembling in breathless anticipation.

Eliott locks his eyes onto him, and spits, a long line dribbling down from the center of his lips. 

It lands on Lucas’ tongue. 

Lucas absolutely loses it, rolling his head back and moaning in unbridled delirium, hips stuttering and hands stretching out to grab onto _something,_ , anything. Eliott whines above him, his own hips stirring, as Lucas draws his tongue back into his mouth and swallows. “Fuck,” Lucas cries, the noise ripping through him, and he grasps at Eliott’s waist, dragging him closer, pulling him in and in and in. “Do it again. Eliott, do it _again.”_

Eliott leans over him again, only inches away, their faces aligned completely, their eyes locked together, neither being able, for the life of him, to pull away. Eliott purses his lips, working up the spit, and Lucas opens his mouth once more, wanting it more than anything in the fucking world. He’ll never ask for anything ever fucking again, as long as he can have this. It’s audible, when Eliott spits this time, and Lucas nearly comes in his fucking pants when he feels it slide down his tongue. 

He reaches up and grabs Eliott’s face between his hands, yanking him down, forcing their open mouths together. Lucas slips his tongue inside, swiping Eliott’s own spit back into his mouth, and when he pulls away, saliva strings between their lips. Lucas makes sure Eliott watches him, not even blinking for a fraction of a second, when he swallows all the leftover spit in his mouth. 

Eliott, hovering over his Lucas’ head, pinning Lucas down with his legs, had yanked the reigns of control out from Lucas’ fucking hands. But now, now after Lucas has _swallowed his spit,_ his resolve slips, and Lucas’ chest heaves as he watches it unfold: his head rolls back, his whining _feral,_ his hips bucking fruitlessly into Lucas’, with absolutely no rhythm or finesse, uncontrolled, uninhibited. His eyes are clamped shut, body shaking in a fit, searching for any semblance of relief, with no avail. 

To be frank, Lucas has never seen a hotter thing in his life.

“Eli, Eli,” he orders lowly, not bothering to hide the moan in his voice, “look at me.” He grips his hands on Eliott’s hips, slowing them down, holding them in place. “I’m gonna roll you on your back.” Eliott lets himself be grabbed and turned, body pliant and soft, limbs swinging numbly. Lucas situates himself between Eliott’s open legs, hovering over him, rocking back and forth in an easy, lagging rhythm. 

“Good boy,” Lucas whispers slowly, low and dark, “nice little body.” Eliott bites his lip, still letting out those pretty, breathy little moans. Lucas slides his hands from Eliott’s waist up to his ribs, and back again, before sneaking them to his jeans and opening the button. 

“Okay?” Lucas asks, lowering himself down, head positioned just over Eliott’s open jeans. Eliott closes his eyes and nods his head frantically, and Lucas flashes, with a ghost of a smirk, and pulls him out of his underwear.

***

After – after they’ve exchanged messy, slobbery, sloppy blowjobs, wet spots still soaked into their jeans from all the _spit_ – they lie together on the bed, coming down, evening their breaths, relaxing their blood, remembering to blink. Eliott lays his head on Lucas’ chest, an arm draped over Lucas’ stomach, and Lucas strokes it absent-mindedly.

It’s silent for a long while. Lucas, finally beginning to come down from the weed, the hazed curls of his vision slowly unfurling, convinces himself it’s not an awkward silence – there’s a lot to think about, a lot to turn over in his head. He runs over tonight’s events constantly, over and over, and his chest flushes with some new detail he remembers every time. But once it’s been quiet for twenty minutes straight, the only sound their synced breathing, it does become a little unbearable. Weighted. But Eliott breaks the tension before Lucas can.

“I like you a lot,” he whispers shyly. The words are just barely audible, floating around in the room, ringing in Lucas’ ears. He’s not sure how to respond. He splays his fingers through Eliott’s soft, messy hair, occasionally dipping down to brush over his ear or run his touch down his neck. An old train of thought comes back to mind… from that day in front of biology, watching Eliott walk out of the chemistry classroom, seeing him in the daylight for the first time. Being a little blown away.

Which course of action should he take? Should he ignore it, pretend he didn’t hear? Should he say something filthy in reply, just to absolve himself of the burden to offer a serious answer? Should he brush it off, laugh it off, tease him for being so soft? 

Should he be honest?

He decides, in a rare, rare occurrence, to take that route.

“I like you, too,” he breathes, so quiet Eliott might not have heard, and he’s not sure if that makes him afraid or relieved. There’s stillness for a moment, both of them frozen in place. But then he hears Eliott sigh, and press a kiss into his shoulder, nuzzling his head into his neck. He feels him smile against his skin, and he thinks his doubt has been answered for him. He feels nothing but peace, contentment. Nothing but relief.

He closes his eyes and holds Eliott as he falls to sleep, stroking gentle, quiet fingers along his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: summerhyuck
> 
> thank you thank you to everyone who leaves a comment, I love seeing them all! They completely make my day :)


	5. v

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm here again cause I prioritize my time well
> 
> Okay, a few things!
> 
> 1) I changed the format, and I could go back and fix it for the previous chapters... but I'm too lazy alkdfs wow the consistency jumped out. I'll be following this format from now on, though.
> 
> 2) I'm sorry that, for the piano song, it's a link to a synthesia saklfd that's the best version I could find, tragic I know
> 
> 3) thank you to everyone in my sharing love gc MUAH love you all but a special thank you to Asstrid and Ana for helping me with the beginning scenes, this is for you 👀
> 
> alright that's all i got. let the sad boi hours begin.

Saturday, 08:31

Lucas wakes up with a dead weight on his arm. He mutters grumpily and blinks, fluttering his eyes, adjusting to the sudden blinding light. They had left the overheads lights on, last night, in Alexia’s guest bedroom. _Idiots_.

Lucas blinks his eyes again to lose the bleariness coating them, and looks down at Eliott sleeping on his chest, face smushed where their skin meets. He smiles as he takes him in, stroking one finger down one of his pink cheeks. It’s reddened from their shared body heat through the night; his shoulders and chest too. With that thought, Lucas becomes acutely aware of the sweat down his own back, plastering him to the sheets, hair damp where it covers his neck. He grimaces. Needs a shower, right now.

He very slowly, very gently, begins to unwind Eliott’s body from his. Takes his time. Smoothes down Eliott’s arm with his touch as he lifts it from his stomach, strokes his hair as he lifts his head from his chest. Though beautiful, Eliott looks different as he sleeps alone: a crease darkens his eyebrows, a small frown pulls his lips, his fingers clenched into fists. He guards himself.

Lucas watches him for a few moments more, content to observe, before he lifts himself off the bed and finds his scattered clothes to put back on. They’ve also been drenched in sweat; Lucas itches at his back where the fabric rubs. He wonders if he could just shower here, in the bathroom in Alexia’s basement, not knowing if he can stand the itching all the way home… but decides that would be imposing. 

He arranges a quick Uber from his phone, and makes to leave the bedroom to go upstairs, when an impulse grabs him, forcing his head around. He glances back at Eliott once more. His hair is so messy, his limbs so twisted, naked skin so open in a glow as he sleeps alone - cuddles into nothing. A pang of guilt twists Lucas’ gut. He can’t just _leave_ him like this, how big of an asshole would he be? 

Instead, an idea strikes him. He scans and rummages around the floor, finding Eliott’s pants and holding them up – _fuck,_ they really are tight, huh – to pull Eliott’s phone out of the back pocket. He creeps over to Eliott, kneeling over him on the bed, and carefully picks up one of his hands and uncurls his thumb to press into the home button. 

Lucas would never want to pry – he would lose it if someone did that to him – so he quickly gets what he came for and locks his phone without so much as a glance at anything else. Once he’s retrieved Eliott’s number, he quickly types it into his own phone, repeating it in a mumble so he won’t forget it.

Now, Eliott’s number sits in his contacts, and he’s left with a blank message box. He hesitates, fingers hovering over the screen. _What to say? That’s not dismissive, but not sappy, either?_

He thinks again of last night – a tremor firing up his spine as he remembers – and takes the road less traveled again. He sends an honest thought.

_To: Eliott  
You look hot when you sleep._

He presses send, looks at Eliott one more time, and opens the door. He turns off the bedroom light before he goes, letting Eliott sleep in the darkness.

Saturday, 09:33

Lucas doesn’t spend much time in the shower, other than soaping off the dried sweat on his skin. He lies in bed afterwards, too lazy to put any clothes on, staring blankly at the wall. Thinking. Turning dozens of thoughts over in his head. He checks his phone, suddenly – not knowing if he’s wanting a text from his mother or a text from Eliott. He gets neither. 

He sighs, thinking back to how he left Eliott on the bed this morning. He wonders if he’s waking up, yet, if he’s yawning and rubbing his eyes, running hands through his messy hair. Wiping away drool. 

_Shit._

Lucas must really have turned into a fool overnight, because that thought – the thought of someone fucking _drooling_ \- makes his blood rush. And he’s an even bigger fool, because his first impulse isn’t to brush that away in embarrassment; instead, he fucking gives in. Who has he turned into?

He leans his head back and closes his eyes, letting the memories wash over him, and a hand drifts down without thinking. 

Lucas remembers Eliott looming over him, eyes cocky and dark in a challenge, watching his adam’s apple bob in his throat as he worked up a spit. He strokes himself slowly, and longingly, letting out a whine when he can feel the ghost of the fat, warm spit in his mouth again. Sliding down his tongue. 

“ _God,_ ” he sputters, voice wobbling, pushing his other hand into the bed in surrender to the wave of sharp pleasure that shudders through him. He remembers how Eliott’s skin felt underneath him, how he crawled down his body, how Lucas twisted his hair between his fingers as he left his fucking _slobber_ all over Lucas’ dick. Lucas cries out as that memory settles in, and he wishes, fucking _dreadfully,_ that it was Eliott touching him right now.

On an impulse, a stupid, mindless impulse, he uncurls his free hand from his sheets and brings it up to his mouth, tongue lolling out as he shoves three fingers in, frantic. He sucks on them desperately, his stroking with his other hand matching the rhythm. He whines and suppresses a moan, almost choking with how wet his tongue is making his fingers, how crowded and full his mouth is. He pulls his fingers out when he’s had enough, and they drip with spit as he brings them down to his dick, flinching when the cold wetness meets his skin. 

He thinks of Eliott as he jerks himself off, thinking of his warm and soaking mouth, of his eyes blown and fucked with whining desperation – of the fucking _words_ that came out of his own mouth last night, words he never thought he would say in his life. His own touch becomes Eliott’s when he closes his eyes, sinking his teeth into his lip in a poor attempt to quiet his untamed moans. 

_It’s_ Eliott’s _fingers that are shoved in his mouth, and Lucas sucks on them, his tongue lathering over the ridges._

Lucas whimpers, hips bucking down. 

_Eliott tugs on him, movements made easier by how wet and slick his fingers are. Lucas has slathered it all over._

He quickens his pace; he can see it happening in his mind, detail after detail pouring in. 

_Eliott slinks down, presses licking kisses down his stomach, before he settles just above, breath hot on his..._

Lucas is close now, on the very edge – if he just turns his hand like _that_ -

_Eliott takes him in his mouth, encasing him in his warm wetness, tongue soft where he meets, and drool shines all over his lips and jaw where it’s spilled over from his mouth, and when he pulls away, a long string of saliva connects his lips and –_

Lucas cries out and shudders against the bed, body convulsing in a fit as he comes down, gasping for air. His hand is slick with wetness from the combination of his spit and come, and Lucas wipes it on his stomach, knowing it’ll be easier to shower again than have to wash his sheets. He tames himself, breathing deeply, fluttering his eyelashes, the blissful aftermath still running through his blood. His fingers jerk against his stomach when he remembers their wetness, and his skin flares, thinking about Eliott’s fingers in his mouth, _again_ , when –

“Little Lulu – AH!” Mika swings open the door with a smile, only to jerk back and whip around, covering his eyes with a lamenting yelp. Lucas recoils so hard he falls off the side of his bed in shock, fuming curses escaping him when he lands.

“MIKA, WHAT THE FUCK, I SWEAR I’M GONNA –“

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” the panicked reply comes, a bit distant, as Mika still faces the other way, hands covering his face. “You just barely got home half an hour ago, I never thought you’d be _fucking-_ ”

“What do you want??” Lucas spits in frustration, pulling his blanket off the bed to wrap his naked body with as he rises from the floor. “I swear to god, I’m this close to –“

“Don’t finish that thought, because I’m here to ask you if we can start our piano lessons –“

“Are you fucking _serious_?” Lucas hisses, and Mika slowly turns around, peeking from behind his eyes to make sure Lucas is covered. “ _That’s_ what was so fucking important, that you had to –“

“We’re even!” Mika cries, waving his arms. “Do you remember when you walked in on the guy giving me a blowjob? And he fucking left afterwards?? We’re even.”

They stare each other down, both glaring and shaking their heads, before Lucas caves. “Fine. Fucking _fine._ But _don’t_ come in my fucking room again.”

There’s a moment of silence as they both stand, awkward, not knowing what to do with the tension. Mika clears his throat. “So, who were you –“

“Get OUT,” Lucas shouts, and moves forward to shove him out of his room.

Saturday, 10:55

So, Mika is fucking hopeless at the piano.

They’d sat down at the bench nearly an hour ago, Mika pulling his phone out to show Lucas the video of the song he wanted to learn. Lucas had raised his eyebrows at the choice, both the difficulty and the title (“’I Love You’? Really? Don’t you think that’s a little bit too on the nose?” and Mika had just sniffed in reply) and had grabbed Mika’s hands, patting them condescendingly.

“No, no,” he’d said, “we have to start with the basics. First you have to master the fingering exercises.”

“What the fuck did you say?” Mika had sputtered, and it continued on like this for the rest of the hour. If getting through the fingering exercises was already this bad, Lucas can’t imagine what _else_ he’s agreed to. He’s too fucking nice to his roommates. Seriously.

Manon came in at some point, yawning, hair mussed from sleep, probably woken up from the ugly sounds being wretched from the piano. She watched Mika’s pathetic attempts to cross his thumbs under his hands to play a full octave, and laughed brightly, only slightly mocking. Mika was sufficiently grumpy.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t blessed with musical talent, sorry I’m not absolutely perfect, sorry I can’t compare to you Gods when I’m mere mortal,” he’d bit, and Manon just rolled her eyes, crossing her arms.

“Shut up. I never sing anymore, first of all,” she countered, “and I’m far from perfect. Breaking news, neither is Lucas.”

“Hey! Speak for yourself, thank you very much.”

“I only speak for the truth,” Manon teased, smiling and winking and warming, before padding away to make her morning cup of tea. Mika had laughed at her comment and now, brightened, he returned back on the keys with enthusiasm, clanging them in a discord. Lucas flinched.

“Okay, stop,” he said, settling his hands onto Mika’s fumbling fingers, guiding them over the keys, “do it like this… and this…”

His life, his home, in this flat, is one of his simplest, easiest joyous comforts.

Another half hour later, when Mika finally masters the exercises and graduates to the next step, practicing _chords_ – honestly, what has Lucas agreed to – Lucas feels two successive buzzes against the bench in his pocket. 

“Was that mine?” Mika asks absent-mindedly, focusing on trying to keep his fingers in the right position.

“No, mine,” Lucas replies, reaching back and pulling out his phone. New texts. From _Eliott._ His gut twists in anticipation and he unlocks it without hesitation, smiling softly when he reads the messages.

_From: Eliott_  
:)  
_I woke up in the dark. Asshole. When can I see you again?_

He thinks about his plans tomorrow… vague ones, to check on his mother, catch up on French literature… 

_To: Eliott  
Monday?_

The reply comes within seconds. 

_From: Eliott  
_ 🚀😋 

Mika looks up from the piano and, noticing Lucas’ smile, pokes at his ribs. Lucas hit his hands away, glaring. 

“Who is it? The same someone from… this morning?” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Lucas grumbles, pattering out his own little melody on the piano keys as a distraction. 

“Is Lulu in love?” Mika fusses, nuzzling his face into Lucas’ neck and wrapping arms around his waist. Lucas shoves him off this time, rattling the piano bench, straightening his shirt where it pulled down his neck. 

“Of course not,” he snaps, biting. “Now are we gonna keep doing this much longer? I have shit to do today.” 

“Okayyyyyy,” Mika groans, rolling his eyes. “Grumpy bitch. I guess that’s enough progress for now. We’ll continue on tomorrow, my wise one.” 

“Oh thank God,” Manon jumps in, entering from the kitchen, cradling her cup of tea. “I can’t take the banging around anymore.” 

“Neither can Lucas, apparently,” Mika whispers. “That was pun intended.” 

“Do you ever shut up?” Lucas cracks, a little flat. Not one of his best. 

Manon drops onto the couch and puts her feet up on the coffee table, settling in. “Lucas, can you play something nice? Pretty please? I need to cleanse my ears.” 

Mika sticks his tongue out at her but rises from the bench to join her on the couch, snuggling into her side. He sniffs at her tea, cooing for a sip, and she pushes his face away. “Yes, please,” Mika agrees, putting his hands behind his head. “Play for us, Lulu Lallemant.” 

Lucas rolls his eyes, turned around on the bench to face them, glaring. “If I play, do you promise to leave me alone for the rest of the day?” 

“Cross my heart!” Mika says. “Don’t want a repeat of this morning.” 

“What happened this morning?” Manon asks, curious, but Mika shakes his head, and Lucas, in avoidance, turns back around to play. 

[A simple song](https://youtu.be/3YL0RES7Gv8) is what his fingers decide on, one he committed to memory as a child. Sweet and melodic. It takes a few tries to warm up, as his fingers keep accidentally slipping on the wrong keys, but he finds a rhythm soon enough. He hasn’t touched the piano in months, not finding the want. Or the will. Or the courage. But now, he’s surprised at how easily it comes to him, again. 

The notes and chords fill the flat, ringing out, stirring up the dust. They fill the cracks in Lucas’ bones, stretch his muscles and clear cobwebs from forgotten corners in his brain. He finishes with a flourish, a smile ghosted on his face. It’s a little bit easier to breathe when his finger holds down the last key. 

Mika and Manon applaud from the couch, both wiping away fake tears, and Lucas can’t help but smile fondly, all the grump gone. He bows slightly, jokingly, and presses his lips together. The praise makes him shy. 

“ _God_ , if you can teach me to play like that, I’ll for sure get a dicking!” Mika says, voice emotional, and Manon grabs a pillow to throw on his head. Lucas laughs, but stands up to go. He walks to his room, listening to the sounds of Manon and Mika’s laughter and banter filling the empty silence the piano has left. 

Sunday, 15:25

Lucas stops at the nearest pet store on the way to his mother’s house, to buy treats for Ouba. His charm surfaces with a rise from the cashier girl when she tries to flirt with him, and he adjusts the snapback on his head and runs a hand through his hair; it’s always the snapbacks, with girls. She smiles and bites her lip, asking if he’ll pay cash or credit. Lucas slides coins across the counter, a little extra than needed. She counts them out and tries to give the right amount of change back, but Lucas stops her hand with a light touch before she can. “Keep the change,” he says, with the smallest wink, and she blushes before he turns around and leaves the store. 

Lucas is _most_ definitely gay – known for years – but he likes to flirt with girls all the same. He thinks it’s funny. And it’s always an ego boost when nobody can resist his charm. 

Once in the car, he pushes the encounter out of his mind, and tries to think about what he’ll say to his mother today. How can he phrase his questions, firm enough to try and pick out if something is wrong, but casual enough that she won’t be suspicious and shut down? It’s always been a minefield like this when it comes to his mother. 

Lucas arrives within ten minutes, swinging the bag of dog treats in his hand as he walks up to the door. He gives a soft little knock as a warning greeting, but twists a key into the lock anyway, unsure if his mother will answer. 

“Hello?” he calls out, peeking his head into the door. He’s greeted by Ouba, who comes bouncing up to the door, yipping at his ankles. He bends down to scruff her over the ears and coo (possibly “who’s a good baby! You’re a good baby!” but… that can’t be confirmed), and reaches into the bag to give her a treat. Once Ouba’s happily distracted, Lucas sets down the treats on the dresser by the door, and ventures further into the house, calling out for his mother. 

“Mama! Where are you!” No answer. And no answer. And no answer. She’s not in the living room or the kitchen or the hallway bathroom. Ouba comes bounding up to Lucas once more, jumping onto his legs to beg for more treats, and Lucas bends down to push her off lightly. 

“Mama?” he calls again, getting frightened now, walking into her bedroom. He hears the sound of a liquid splashing on tile, and a rough, heavy scratching sound, coming from further into the bedroom. He rushes through the room, drawing to the source: the bathroom en suite for the master bedroom. 

This door is open just a crack, and Lucas pushes on it gently, movements creaking and slow as the door swings open. His mother is hunched over, kneeling on the ground, a huge bucket of an overbearing chemical compound next to her, and she dips a brush into it every few seconds to bring to the tiled bathroom floor and scrub. The entire room smells of bleach, and worse. It bites into Lucas’ nose. He drops down to the floor next to her and holds her hands down, keeping them in place. 

“Mama, what are you doing?” he whispers, trying to stay even and collected. He breathes deeply in and out, thought it makes him lightheaded from all the chemicals drifting in the air. 

She looks up at him in confusion, as if she’s only just become aware that her hands have stopped scrubbing the floor. “Lucas? Why are you here?" 

Lucas forces his heart to stop pounding. He's calm. Collected. Cool. “I came to check on you. I was worried about you. Come on, let’s get out of this room, you’re going to pass out in here.” He holds her hands and gently stands them up together, keeping a light hand on her elbow as she orients herself. Her eyes seem a bit dazed; Lucas wonders how much longer it would have taken her to pass out with the chemicals seeping into her throat and lungs. He flushes with shame when he thinks of how he could have arrived sooner, if he hadn’t fucking flirted with that cashier girl. 

It’s always the same. No matter how much Lucas likes to pretend he’s suave and slick and in control, life always _fucking_ finds ways to remind him that he’s at its utter, terrifying mercy. 

“No, no,” Lucas’ mother mumbles as he guides her out of the bathroom. “I have to clean it. I'm not finished.” 

“It’s okay, Mama,” Lucas reassures her, though he wells in frustration with her words. “I promise you, it’s already clean.” 

He keeps a hand on her back as they walk out of her room, down the hallway, all the way to the kitchen table. He watches her as she clambers to her usual chair, making sure she’s sitting alright before he turns his head to start the kettle for a cup of tea. Ouba comes over again, whining, clearly hurt from Lucas pushing her away before. Lucas fishes out another treat from the bag on the table, and bends down to his knees to offer it to her on his hand, in surrender; Ouba takes it gladly, previous grievance forgotten. 

“Where did you get those?” Lucas’ mother asks, nudging at the bag of treats. 

Lucas stands back up to the counter, turning up the stove heat even further to get the water boiling faster. “I stopped by the pet store before I came,” he says, back turned, overcome with a sudden anxious resolve to not look at her. He doesn’t want to see that cloudy look in her eyes again. Not if he can’t help it. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly, and Lucas fixes his gaze on the kettle, waiting, waiting for steam to come out. Eyes tracing the curves of it, the pattern, though it’s the same kettle they’ve had since he was a child. He doesn’t look at anything else, and the kitchen falls into silence for a few minutes. 

Once the kettle finally whistles, Lucas gets two cups ready with bags, and he steeps them slowly for a minute before bringing them to the kitchen table. He slides one over to his mother, delicately, controlling his movements to not come off as angry. That will do nothing except set her off. 

Ouba whines again at their feet, and this time, Lucas’ mother is the one that throws her a treat. They sit at the table in silence for a few beats, adjusting their tea bags, before Lucas clears his throat. He decides not to beat around the bush, not to play games; for the third time in the past twenty-four hours, the truth comes pouring out.

“Mama, are you okay? Don’t lie to me, please. I’m worried about you.”

She sighs, quiet and forlorn. She doesn’t answer, not for a while. “Yes. I’m fine. I think so.” Lucas exhales and shakes his head, but she cuts him off. “Really. It just gets difficult sometimes. But I manage.”

“Are you still going the counseling sessions?” Lucas asks her, trying to keep the pleading edge out of his voice.

His mother swallows. “Occasionally.” She jumps in for her defense when Lucas closes his eyes and leans back, sighing. “You know how I don’t like them. They always make me feel so tired. And guilty.”

Lucas forces himself to bite back his retort. _Maybe you should feel guilty._ He takes a sip of tea instead to swallow the words down, and looks at her carefully. 

“I need you to keep trying. Please,” Lucas says, quiet and drawn, keeping his voice steady. “If you can’t do it for you, do it for me. And if you can’t do it for me… do it for Ouba, then.”

Ouba’s ears prick at the mention of her name, but she doesn’t get up, satisfied with the amount of treats she’s had. Lucas’ mother looks down at her fondly, a small smile lifting her cheeks, and she exhales a shaky breath. As if to gather courage for something.

“I slept in your room last night,” she says, so quietly, Lucas almost misses it. But he hears it. And a wave of shame, hot and heavy, rolls down his spine. It burns in the pit of his stomach. He’s unable to stop himself from thinking of that room, flashes of memories crowding his brain, invading, unshakeable, and he screws his eyes shut. 

“Don’t fucking do that, Mama. Don’t say stuff like that to me.”

She flinches at his strong words, brow quivering at the same time her lip does. Lucas leans forward, an apology at the ready, and it takes effort to force it out. His bones are suddenly heavy, like lead, weighing him down. He’s just tired. 

“I’m sorry. But don’t. Please, just don’t.”

His mother stares at him for a few moments more, eyes rocking back and forth, searching him. Examining him. Determining where he’s dirty, so she can clean and straighten him out. “Okay,” she swallows. “I won’t.”

Silence befalls the table, tense. Lucas’ mother reaches down to pick up Ouba and bring her to her lap, stroking her white fur, easing the slight tremble in her hands. Lucas, instead, reaches back to pull his phone out of his pocket, drafting a text to someone he hasn’t talked to in months.

_To: Father  
I’m worried about Mama. She doesn’t seem well. What can you do to fix it?_

He waits anxiously for a reply, chewing his lip. He presses the home button and scrolls through the settings on his phone, unable to find the energy to open any app. A reply buzzes at the top of his screen, after he’s swiped through each settings tab, twice.

_From: Father  
I don’t know. I’m busy lately._

Lucas tenses his jaw, breathing evenly through his nose. He has to force himself not to clench his fists - he can’t let Mama know. He must stay in control. A little bite comes out in his text anyway, and he has to type it three times from the slight shake in his fingers before he sends it.

_To: Father  
I would appreciate it if you at least acted like you gave a fuck about my mother. I’m going to keep visiting to check on her. I’m not going to let you cop out. What are you going to do? _

The reply comes quicker this time, and a dull pang of anxiety clenches in Lucas’ stomach before he opens it.

_From: Father  
I will keep tabs on the clinic to make sure she’s going to counseling. There is not anything I can do beyond that._

Lucas can’t stop the slight, incredulous shake of his head, but a tiny bit of relief sneaks its way in, all the same. Something, even something as pathetically uncaring as that, is better than nothing.

_To: Father  
Fine. Thank you._

The conversation ends after that. Lucas tosses his phone on the table, not caring that it clatters, and winds his fingers around the cooling cup of tea. He watches his mother, giggling with Ouba in her arms as she licks and cuddles into her, and he drinks another sip of tea, and it takes restrained, impatient, stubborn power to force himself to sit still.

Monday, 09:17

Le Gang: Last message at 09:24

_Yann: Gone again today @Lucas ?_

_Lucas: Yes._

_Basile: Is it something to do with Eliott 😏_

_Lucas: No._

_Arthur: baz shut up for once. everything okay mec?_

_Lucas: Yes. Just spending the day at mother’s. Text me the biology lesson later._

_Arthur: Will do_

_Basile: Im sorry Lucas. Hope everythings alright._

_Lucas: Nerd._

_Thanks._

_Yann: Let us know, okay?_

Monday, 15:32

_Eliott: I thought I might see you after chemistry today, but you seem to be a 👻_

Monday, 16:42

_Eliott: are you here today? hows your attendance, it must be bad haha_

Monday, 17:50

_Eliott: are we still hanging out today?_

Monday, 18:28

_Eliott: maybe you can't tell cause youre so old and all but time is running out of the day_

Monday, 19:03

_Eliott: Lucas?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: summerhyuck
> 
> thank you for all the lovely wonderful comments I get!! I read and reply to them all :)


	6. vi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in the midst of all this sweet elu fluff, have some angst 😎
> 
> there's a [ficpost](http://summerhyuck.tumblr.com/post/183368473276/you-cut-through-all-the-noise-by-27tattoos-ao3) for this on tumblr now! feel free to reblog, if you'd like :)
> 
> oh rip i almost forgot, thank you to zoe in the sharing love gc for helping me coming up with mon chou!!! an angel 💖

Thursday, 14:11

The last time Lucas chainsmoked, he was fifteen. It was just after his father had left his mother, final, this time, a file for divorce slipped under her bedroom door before he stepped out of the house and never came back. He thought about that day, this morning, as he chainsmoked again, using his entire stash of leftover weed before he moved onto cigarettes. He doesn’t like them, much. They smell. But - as stupid as it sounds - smoking helps him breathe.

Now, Lucas sits at the piano at his mother’s house in their living room, staring at its open face. He’d taken a break from smoking outside to play a bit, tease and flutter across the keys, playing only the beginning of a few songs. It’s nice to sift back through his memory and find the notes to songs he hasn’t remembered in years; nice to know that no matter if he’s lost them, there they sit, at the tips of his fingers, waiting to be recognized and played again. 

It’s nicer than he can say. 

Hit by sudden inspiration, Lucas goes through as much of the introduction to [Swan Lake](https://youtu.be/evOnFFoCgLI) as he can, a favorite piece of his as a child. He remembers playing a ten minute arrangement of it at one of his recitals - God, how young was he, eleven, twelve? – and feeling a soaring, swelling flood of pride when he managed to complete the entire thing without any mistakes. The recital room had burst into applause, his parents in the front row smiling with painfully wide cheeks as he took his bow.

He can only get through two minutes, now, before his memory fails him. 

He slides away from the piano, bench screeching on the floor, and snaps the lid shut. He needs a breather. So he walks back outside, sitting on the porch steps, fumbling for another cigarette from the pack in his pocket, and a lighter in the other. It burns his throat when he takes it in, raw from all the smoke he’s consumed today, but it feels good to hold it in his lungs and breathe it out. It’s visible. That’s his favorite part about it: his breath, his long exhales, made visible.

He sits in silence for a while, watching cars pass by on the street, before he feels a buzz in his back pocket. He pulls out his phone, knowing his mother should be finishing up her counseling session by now: she says as much, in her message.

_From: Mama  
Heading back now. Should be home soon._

He sends her back a thumbs up in reply, not needing anything else. His eyes glaze over as he stares at their conversation for a bit, and he fights the impulse that rises in him, knowing what his fingers are itching to do. He tries to stop it, _tries_ to force it down, but it’s no good. He does it anyway, for the hundredth time in the past week. 

He opens Eliott’s messages and reads them again, beginning with a heart, ending with a sad, small _”Lucas?”_. Lucas can’t do anything but stare at it helplessly, nothing but a huge fucking chasm overtaking his brain where he should be able to form the words to reply. _”I’m sorry, had an issue with friends. No big deal. I’ll find you at school tomorrow.”_ Boom, done. Fixed. It would be painless and quick, almost too easy to say. But each time he types it out, no matter how long he stares at it and how hard he tells himself to just push the fucking send button, he can’t bring himself to do it. He just can’t. 

Lucas locks his phone in frustration and shoves it back in his pocket, returning to his cigarette with a furrowed brow. Guilt rises, tightens in his throat, but he swallows it down. It’s just because of how un-fucking-bearably earnest and sweet and exposed Eliott is, he tells himself; that’s why he can’t do it. Fixing such an error over text… he doesn’t want to imagine Eliott’s face falling in displeasure. No, he’ll have to fix it in person. It will be much easier, that way. Then he’ll be able to smooth things over with some charm, something that’s much harder to do over text, anyway. 

He smiles, heart a bit lightened, satisfied with his plan. He takes another drag of his cigarette and thinks of how it will feel to kiss Eliott again, and he pricks with excitement, imagining it… when he spots his mother’s car coming from the distance, and he stands up, twisting his cigarette out under his shoe before walking to the sidewalk to wait for her. 

Now that he thinks about it, watching her as she pulls into the driveway, he doesn’t know why he stamped out his cigarette. She’ll be able to smell it on him, and he’s eighteen, in any case. And, after the week they’ve spent together, she really would have no business babying him like that.

She slams the car door shut after climbing out and walks over to him, bright smile on her face. She greets him with a _”salut, mon chou”_ and a timid hug, and if she notices the cigarette smell, she doesn’t say anything about it. 

“How did it go?” he asks her as they walk into the house, and Ouba greets them at the door, probably awakened from napping in her mother’s bed by the sound of the car door slamming. She bends down to pet her as she jumps up onto her shins, scratching and whining and licking her pants. 

“Obviously she missed you,” Lucas remarks, and he can’t help the laugh that comes out of him. Neither can his mother, and it’s nice to hear her laugh. She finishes scruffing her up and then pushes her away, lightly, and she flounces off, back to commanding the house. Lucas’ mother looks at him now, no longer distracted, and answers his previous question.

“It went fine. As well as always,” she says, and Lucas can tell she’s trying to sound composed and nonchalant, controlling the shake in her voice. He knows, because he does the same thing – like mother like son, and all that. 

“Well, that’s good,” he says, patting her arm tenderly, rubbing her shoulder. She nods her head, not able to meet his eyes, blinking a little too fast, so Lucas jumps in before things can get too messy.

“I’m glad you’re doing this, Mama. I know it’s hard. I know it’s hard,” he repeats, as he pulls her in for a hug, wrapping around her tired, curved back, soothing the tremors shaking her shoulders. 

“But I’m very proud of you.”

They stand they for a while, just holding each other, and Lucas can feel his neck getting wet where her tears fall. But he just lets her cry, and he lets her shake, and they don’t say another word about it.

 

Thursday, 19:03

They have dinner together. Lucas has cooked for the past three days, but this time, his mother offers. So instead, he plays around with Ouba, teasing her with toys and treats and giving her snuggles, while he waits for the pasta she’s making to reach a boil. If Lucas thinks too hard about it, he can feel a pressing, aching, unbearable swell of nostalgia threatening to break through every single wall he’s been building up, with merciless discipline, since he was thirteen. He feels it biting at his eyes and the corner of his mouth as Ouba barks joyously and the smell of his mother’s cooking fills the air. But he strangles it before it can surface, snuffs it out with a single blow. He pushes Ouba away, eyes flat. His mother finishes up, and he joins her at the table.

They sit eating together, the clinks of cutlery on their nice china plates is the only sound. Lucas can’t even hear the sound of his own chewing, he’s so lost in his head. His mother clears her throat across from him, snapping his attention back into place.

“I have to say something,” she speaks quietly, soft, as always, but with a backing of something firm. Lucas stops tinkering at his plate, and leans back in his chair, listening intently.

“I appreciate how much you’ve helped me over the past few days, Lucas. I appreciate it… more than I can say. I’ve been needing to get out of the house,” she admits, looking down in shame, “and it’s been so nice to go out with you. Go for walks, get groceries… I’ve missed you, _mon chou._ ”

Lucas tenses his jaws, hardens himself. Steels himself. He won’t cry.

“But you can’t be around for me all the time. You can’t keep missing your schooling… I’m not saying I want you to leave and never come back.” She swallows. “I want you to visit as often as you can. It helps very much, I’ll admit that. But you have a life to take care of too.”

He won’t cry. He won’t cry.

“And so I want you to go to your own home tonight. I can manage by myself again, for a while. I’m not saying that things are fixed, and I’m great, because I’m not. But you have your own life to live, and I can’t keep expecting you to sacrifice it on me.” A swelled pause, something lying in wait. “Like I have before.” 

Lucas won’t fucking cry. He will not. So he nods his head, reserved, restrained, and he stares at the pattern on the tablecloth. She falls into silence for a while, and Lucas can feel her trying to look at him, encourage him to lift his head up and meet her eyes. But he can’t. He can’t say what he want to say and look at her eyes too. It will break him.

So he settles for an “I love you, Mama,” murmured quietly, but nonetheless echoing. It loads the the room, filling the corners, bouncing over the shining tile floors, hovering over the table and their food, numbing the muscles in Lucas’ jaw. It sits and stays and doesn’t go away. Eventually, they return to their plates, eating quietly in surrender and scratching their plates again. But not another word is spoken.

Afterwards, Lucas gathers up his things, wrangles up the other outfit he’s been switching between during his stay here, finds his charger, his shoes, his cigarettes. He makes the couch before he goes, fluffing the dents out of the cushions he’s been sleeping on. He scratches Ouba under her skin, cooing “good baby, good baby,” and he gives her a parting belly rub when she flops over. He goes over to his mother, washing up the dishes from dinner, and gives her a kiss on the back of her head in lieu of goodbye. 

Before he goes, he strokes a gentle hand along the wall, parting with the house, too. And he leaves, dropping tiredly in the Benz, staring at the wheel in his hands for a few minutes before turning his keys and driving away.

It’s not before he’s only five minutes away from home that a sudden impulse wracks through his body, overbearing and unstoppable, an address flitting through his mind, the same one from that night, in the meadow. He bites his lip, deliberating. And he pulls down another street, turning around, heading for a new destination.

 

Friday, 00:07

Manon is in the kitchen when Lucas finally gets home, a hickey stinging on the back of his neck, drying come in his pants, making him limp in discomfort. She sits at the table, cup of tea between her hands, simply staring at the wall. But she gets up when Lucas walks in, coming over to him in concern, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder before he can barrel through to his room to change out of his underwear. 

“Are you okay?” she whispers, touching down his cheek with the back of her hand. Lucas nods, holding her hand against his skin for a few quiet moments, before pushing it away.

“I’m fine,” he says, dismissive, ending it. He can feel her eyes on him as he stumbles over to his room, shutting the door behind him. 

 

Friday, 08:20

Lucas sits in an office chair, face to face with the principal of the school, a heavy, firm, graying woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper nose, down which she peers at him. He smiles easily across from her, even with her unyielding gaze, explaining in a prattle with a few easy waves of his hands that he’s missed so much class lately because he’s had to take care of his mother. She’s ill, saying his father is gone, she can’t do it alone, this and this, that and that, saying all the right words. He’s been through this song and dance many times before; it comes naturally. 

The principal nods along seriously as he talks, signing off on Lucas’ absent-waiver notes, and asks him to please come to her if he ever needs anything. Lucas smiles sweetly, nods genuinely, a bright “will do” ready in response. He leaves her office with an ego boost. It’s almost too easy, sometimes. 

He begins the walk to his first period, not looking forward to having to talk to all his teachers today to come up with plans to make up the missing material. The satisfaction of charming the teachers wears off by the third or fourth one. But it’s what has to be done, and so he’ll do it; then life start to breeze by again, like normal. He’ll force it, if that’s what it takes.

He met up with the Boys before school for coffee, and he still can’t decide if it was exhausting or energizing to be around their constant ribbing and snorting and dirty jokes again. He thinks he’s leaning towards the latter - he does like to be around them, at the end of the day. It’s always pleasant to find out who can be the funniest of the hour and get Lucas to laugh genuinely, not sarcastically. It’s a hard task, most of the time.

Yann had hugged him a little too long when they met up, dropping a quick kiss on his shoulder, eyes spilling over with questions. He only asked one of them out loud: “Are you alright? You look like shit,” and he pointed to the dusky purple bruises under Lucas’ eyes, the redness lining his lids that he tries to blink away without success. A red snapback covers his head today, hiding his greasy and mussed and untamable hair.

Lucas, cheeks flushing a bit from his worn appearance being called out on, had dismissed Yann with the slightest movement of his hand, hoping a _later_ was communicated. He’ll hold himself to that promise. Or at least try. Sometimes, he has to consciously remind himself that he can trust his best friend, that that’s what he’s there for.

First period is French literature, and the teacher is chill and dorky, so Lucas gets her to sign his absence waiver papers without effort. Emma is in this class with him, so he catches up with her a little bit before class starts. If she notices how tired he looks, she doesn’t say anything. Instead, they chat about Alexia’s party – still a raging hot topic a week later – and Lucas hears of all the hot gossip being traded around. Apparently someone fucked in Alexia’s bathtub, the one in her personal bathroom, and she threw up having to wash all the dried come down the drain the next morning.

Lucas wrinkles his nose, saying “that’s fucking disgusting,” which makes Emma laugh.

The periods of the day are all the same. He gets all his papers signed. Time flows in and out. Boring. He wishes he could pay attention in the lectures – certainly, that would help time pass faster. But as he sits in each of his desks, cheek in his hands, staring at the wall, all he can think about it how much he wants a joint. He greets his various friends and acquaintances in each of his classes, quick with painless excuses when they ask why he’s been gone. 

Lunch isn’t great, either; person after person in his year whose names he barely knows approach their table, asking if he’s good, that they’ve heard rumors of a fight. Lucas has to bite his tongue before he tells them to shove off. Additionally, Basile is even more annoying than usual as he and the Boys sit together and eat, his Chloe drivel honest to god making Lucas lose brain cells. He can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes, over and over, eyes drifting over to sweep across the cafeteria every once in a while, looking for someone that he knows isn’t there. Despite the gloom outside, he wishes they had chosen to eat out there.

His French class after lunch is agonizing. His eyes look towards the clock every other moment, mechanical in the rhythm. Time passes in slow, syrupy increments, and his brain feels heavy and murky and cloudy, on the fringes of a headache. All that turns through his brain, as his foot taps against the floor under his desk, is how much he wants to fucking leave and wait outside his Biology classroom, knowing that someone will be there soon. Someone that hasn’t stopped fucking crowding and pulling and gripping his thoughts with an iron fist, all night, all morning, all afternoon. He has to start working, _now_ , to dam up the desire to drag Eliott to an empty classroom and slam him against the door and kiss him the second he sees him. If he doesn’t start now, there’s no telling if he’ll be able to control himself.

Finally, finally, _finally_ the bell rings, and Lucas might have accidentally shoved someone in his effort to leave. He bolts through the hallways, darting in and out of groups of people that don’t fucking move, impatience flaring up with every step he takes. His feet move with a purpose. And the longer he takes, the longer the minutes stretch on in his dash to Biology, the faster the purpose slips away, out of reach.

He makes it to his Biology classroom with three minutes to spare before the bell rings, and he searches the students outside the Chemistry room just down the hallway, looking looking looking. Where is he? Where is he? His eyes snap onto the back of a heavy brown jacket, just a glimpse of it, as it’s fading away quickly – Eliott speeding off. Lucas doesn’t give a shit. He runs after him, and the people crowding the hallway move out of his way.

“Eliott!” he cries, finally catching up to him, grabbing ahold of his wrist. Eliott stops his walking and, refusing to turn around, wrenches Lucas’ grip off. Lucas needs him to look at him. He needs to see his face. So he grabs him again, gentler this time, a hand on the small of his back, before guiding them to an empty classroom just down the hallway. The door snicks shut as he closes it behind him.

Before Lucas can say what he wants to say, he drinks him in. The curve of his jaw… his lips, pink and bitten – he must’ve been chewing on them in concentration… furrowed brows, hands clenched into fists where he holds his backpack straps, back curled in a hunch, a hard edge to his eyes… all of it, Lucas takes him all in. He’s incredulous at the fact that he managed to survive almost an entire week without looking at him. He chokes down the desire to surge forward and kiss him; his jaw strains with the effort.

“What do you want?” Eliott says quietly, breaking the silence. His tone is firm, the lines of him unrelenting and hard, ready to defend. A stutter catches in Lucas’ throat before he begins his plan.

“I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your texts. I had an issue with friends that I had to take care of this week, and that’s why I’ve been gone so long. No big deal. Won’t happen again.” As the excuses come out with ease, the practicing in his head made verbal, Lucas’ stomach turns more and more. It’s not enough. Eliott is still closed off and still glaring and it isn’t working. It’s not right. It’s not right.

“Listen,” Eliott begins, voice cracking and wavering, before he reels it back in. He continues on, no tremor now. “Even if you had told me the truth just now, it still couldn’t smooth things over, just like that, in the way you want it to. I’m not your little… fuck toy, okay?” he spits, angry, biting, and Lucas flinches. “You can’t do whatever you want with me and expect me to come crawling back for more. If you’re not interested, just say you aren’t interested. I can fucking handle it.”

Lucas sits in stunned silence, having absolutely no fucking idea what to say. His tongue swells in his mouth, his throat clamped up. Lucas can count the amount of times he’s been speechless on one fucking hand, but here’s another to add to the ticks on his fingers. He is. No words to fill and smooth the gaps. Eliott stares at him, eyes unwavering, daring him to reply; when enough time has passed that it becomes obvious Lucas won’t, he scoffs and glides forward, leaving the door open behind him. 

Lucas blinks, as if waking up from a daze. Dark spots swim at the edges of his vision, a sure headache on the way, now. His fingers, in a sudden, acute realization, cry for a cigarette. He scratches the tips of his fingers against his arm to rid himself of the urge, and it doesn’t work. 

He shudders. 

Lucas leaves the empty classroom and heads, resigned, back to Biology, heads turning as he walks in late. The teacher gets after him, but it all comes in and goes out in the same measure, no processing done.

He sits down next to Imane, who greets him only with a slight nod of her head, before returning her attention back to her careful note-taking. Lucas pulls out his things, one by one, robotic and docile, hands working on their own accord. He holds his pencil and writes things down, ears turning words directly onto the page, but he feels distant and above himself, like another person is controlling his strings.

He doesn’t look at the clock once through the whole period, and his foot stays still under his desk.

Saturday, 10:43

_From: Yann  
You gonna tell me about it soon, bro?_

Lucas stares at the message received ten minutes ago, fingers still in mid-reply but cut short when he tries to come up with the words. He sits at the piano bench with Mika, watching over him as he practices some simple songs they found to get him used to reading notes, but he’s closed off. Not paying enough attention to point out when Mika forgets a sharp or holds his fingers in the wrong position. Lucas warned him he’d be a shitty teacher.

Mika nudges him after he finishes one of his songs, pulling him out of his thoughts. 

“Good?” he asks, and Lucas sighs quietly, surrendering. Mika is one of the very few people he can tell the truth to without a second thought. 

“I don’t know,” he admits, looking back down at his phone, and Mika snorts, tickling his ribs.

“I was talking about my song…” and Lucas flushes, embarrassed, rolling his eyes, but Mika smiles gently, brushing a hand over his leg in apology.

“I’m kidding, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Will you tell me what’s wrong, Lulu?” he pouts, leaning his head on his shoulder. 

“Lots of things,” Lucas whispers. “I don’t really want to talk about it, to be honest. I’m just having a lot of thoughts lately. Memories are surfacing… it’s just been…”

“It’s okay,” Mika placates, nodding his head against his shoulder. They stare at the open face of the piano for a minute, Mika playing a little bit of the song he’s been working on. He’s most definitely improved; it makes Lucas smile. “As long as you can smile, things are fine,” Mika says, and he gives him a squeezing hug, and Lucas closes his eyes against it. He lets himself feel it, lets his chest open up a little bit when Mika lets go. It helps.

“I’ll leave you alone, now, as long as you promise to play me some pretty songs while I clean,” Mika stays, stern, waving his finger mockingly. Lucas smirks and sticks his tongue out, but he smiles anyway. Lightened, however quietly. 

Mika leaves, and Lucas finds the words to send to Yann in response.

_To Yann:  
Mama was having issues. Compulsions getting bad, again. I just had to stay at her house for a while to watch over her and make sure she was getting out, going to her counseling appointments, take care of Ouba while she was gone. She’s doing better. At least for now._

Lucas feels a weight drop off his chest when he hits send, and it’s small, but it’s enough. He directs his attention back to the piano, now, deliberating for a few moments in his memory before deciding on [something soothing and slow,](https://youtu.be/PXMVkQ70I88) something he learned around seven or eight. He’s not sure he’ll be able to remember the whole thing, so he quickly types up a search for it on his phone, finding sheet music. Even though the notes are tiny on his phone screen, just seeing where they’re placed is enough to refresh his memory, and his fingers slide across the keys without effort. Sweeping and lovely. 

Lucas plays for a few minutes before a notification from Yann pops up on his screen, obstructing the notes, and the music falls flat. He grabs his phone off of the ledge of the piano and opens Yann’s message.

_From: Yann  
Okay, good. I’m glad she’s doing better._

A second buzz, the message loading underneath.

_And you?_

Lucas stares at the message, and it feels like his chest has been punctured. A small tear, a crack in the dam… how does he even begin to explain, where would he start, if he tried to tell Yann… tried to bring words the lurking suspicion, that creeps at the back of his head, just barely there, haunting. He’s not sure he’d be able to name it, it’s so distant.

He shakes his head and closes out of Yann’s message, abruptly, irritably, jaw clenched. Whatever. Whatever. He doesn’t have to talk about it if he doesn’t want to. He’s got it all under control and it’s fine. His brain doesn’t fucking determine who he is. He won’t be like his mother. He can stay in control.

Impassioned by his building rage, Lucas swipes over to Eliott’s contact and reads their messages again. He’s overcome with an unexpected annoyance, an anger, at everyone and everything, wondering why they can’t just let him take the reigns, let him rule, because it’s what he’s good at. He knows how to fix things, he knows where to smooth things out and make things better and solve the problems and resolve the tensions. Why do they always have to bring their own stubborn views and questions and fucking concerns into things? Why can’t they just let him fix it? 

_Lucas?_

_And you?_

He sits, quietly fuming, at the piano, straining back an angry impulse to slam his hands down on the keys and break them. It ripples through him. But he cools himself down, fine fine fine fine. He’s fine. He feels the beginning of an inspiration overtaking him, developing, sprawling out in his mind, and he’s going to fix things and it will be fine. 

He stands up from the piano, shoving his phone in his pocket, and calling out to Mika in the kitchen. 

“I’m going out for a bit,” he exclaims. “Don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Lucas goes to his room, gathering his things; slipping a spare cigarette pack in his pocket, finding a pair of black aviators to cover the dark circles hollowing his eyes, snapping his keys off his desk and holding them in his palm. Mika catches him with a light push to the chest before he can head out the door, a dish sponge dripping in his hand.

“What’s changed from the past two weeks?” he teases, smile light, before letting Lucas go through again. Lucas waves him off with a salute before swinging the front door open and stepping outside, into the weak warm sunlight of early March.

 

Saturday, 13:30

Lucas had to drive around for a little while, crawl the streets of Paris out of the sweeping view of his windshield, breathing it all in to help cool himself down. Now that his blood has calmed, no longer rushing in his ears, he can carry through with his intended destination. 

He doesn’t do much else, not even turn on the radio, besides run the address in his head, over and over, not wanting to lose it. He’s got an extensive list built up, of the ones he’s memorized; and this one is brand new, very easy to lose if he doesn’t concentrate. He turns down street after street, winding through, til the roads and buildings and lampposts start to seem familiar. 

A strange sense of serenity has eased his muscles, so he doesn’t tap his fingers on the wheel or drum his leg or anxiously glance at his rearview mirror – a usual tic of his. No, he sits calmly in his seat, head resting, coolly eyes on the road, darkened from his glasses. A purpose guides his steering, and he remains in control.

Finally, he pulls up to the apartment complex, confident it’s the same one – even though he didn’t get the best look, last time. He parks his Benz on the opposite side of the street and strolls across, and he won’t push down the slight swagger in his step. He’s ready to fix things and - he’s ready to kiss again, in a way that he’s been deprived of for too long, now. 

He walks up the steps to the door – it’s painted a cute blue, Lucas is endeared - and knocks, only once. He stands at the porch, waiting, before hit with the urge to situate himself before Eliott answers. He doesn’t want to look like a fucking dork, standing here; how would that help his cause? So he steps back a bit and leans against the railing on the steps, crossing his ankles together. He’s looking down when the door opens.

And there Eliott stands, thin black jacket draped over his shoulders, hair ruffled in a mess. Eyes bright and awake and pretty, even through the dark tint of Lucas’ aviators. He crosses his arms over his chest and lowers his eyelids when he realizes it’s Lucas at the door, lip slightly curling. Lucas bites the inside of his cheek. He’ll fix it. He’ll fix it. 

“Hi,” he says, and it comes out weaker than he would have liked. Eliott remains stoic, not the single, slightest change in his features. 

“How did you get here?” he says suspiciously, a bite of anger underneath. Lucas smiles, crooked and charming, lifting himself up from his lean against the railing. 

“Never forget an address, not me. I’ll never know when it’ll come in handy.” It rolls off his tongue, too easy. Eliott rolls his eyes, unimpressed, and Lucas face falls, just a little bit.

“Whatever. What do you want? I’m trying to study.” 

Lucas’ gut tightens when he realizes he’s running out of time. Losing his window. Quickly he thinks back, back to that first day outside of the chemistry building… what he said to pull him, along to the meadow…

“I realized,” he begins, voice collected and slow, confidence building – “that I’ve been the most disappointing I could possibly be. Ignoring your texts. Not talking to you. Lying to you when you ask me what’s up. I mean, how much more cliché could I get?”

That gets to Eliott, and Lucas grins in delight when he sees him bite away a small smile. He continues, steady on course now, leaning against the railing again, relaxed.

“So instead, I’ve decided to be the second most cliché – come to your house, offer you a ride to the meadow again,” he gestures back to the Benz parked across the street, “maybe even tell you the truth. A lot cooler, huh? Am I still disappointing?”

Eliott’s lips quirk, but his eyes still guarding, waiting, expecting elaboration. Lucas sighs and steadies himself, throwing all caution to the fucking wind. It has to pay off. It just has to.

“The reason why I was gone all week is because of something very personal. Involving my mother. And it’s something I can’t talk about fully… something I don’t even know what to think about, much, myself.” He swallows the gathering lump in his throat, pressing on. He wills himself to believe that honesty is a good thing, honesty is where he’ll gain the trust. “I’m sorry about that. But I’m standing here in front of your house and I’m telling you more than I’ve told anyone in the past few days and I think that counts for something.”

Eliott studies him now, trying to discern if what’s coming out of his mouth is genuine. Lucas bites his lip nervously. He’s torn, now, about the aviators shielding his eyes – he wants Eliott to be able to look at him in the eye and see his sincerity for himself, but at the same time, he’s glad for the guard. A few long, weighted moments pass by. But there must be something in the way Lucas stands, in the openness of his chest and ribs, his feet turned out rather than in – that makes Eliott soften. A small smile graces his lips. Lucas could fall to his knees with the weight of the victory he feels.

“Asshole,” Eliott mumbles, so softly Lucas almost misses it, but he grins in relief when the the soft, fond tone sink into his ears. His cheeks knock against the brim of his aviators with how wide his smile is.

“Asshole? Am I really?” he questions, teasing, a slight smirk, and Eliott rolls his eyes - but can’t help the smile that breaks through the cold. 

“Are you really gonna take me to the meadow again?” Eliott says, leaning against the doorframe now instead of standing cold and unwavering, and Lucas can’t help rake his eyes over his body. Lean and angular, hip cocked to the side… his mouth waters. Two can play at this game.

“Only if you’re up for it,” he challenges, tilting his neck back, exposing his throat, and slightly, _slightly_ leaning his hips forward – pointed. He doesn’t miss the way Eliott swallows thickly at the movement. _Got him._

Lucas has never felt more satisfied with himself in his whole life.

“Alright,” Eliott says with a blush, a rosy sweet blush, so familiar on his cheeks. He steps back inside the house momentarily and comes out with a pair of shoes on. “But on one condition,” he continues, becoming stern again, as they walk down the stairs together. Lucas watches his back muscles work under his jacket as he recurls it around his shoulders, and he stumbles a bit, tripping over his own feet. This fucking kid… how has he gone so long without him?

“Name your terms,” Lucas edges as they cross the street to the Benz, and he’s unable to hide the cocky bite to his tone now. He feels unbeatable, like a king; there’s not a problem in the fucking world that he can’t fix. 

They reach the car and Eliott winds around to stand in front of the passenger seat, their faces meeting each other over the top of the car in a challenge. Eliott cocks an eyebrow, devious. “The condition is that I pick the music.”

Lucas can’t roll his eyes to make his point, so he settles for pressing his lips together in distaste, mistrust. “Are you gonna make me listen to dubstep on such a lovely, bright afternoon? I don’t know if I can handle that. Don’t know if the Benz can handle that, either.”

Eliott laughs, sound tinkering and pretty, and Lucas decides that even if it was dubstep, he doesn’t think he would mind. “No, it’s not dubstep. You’ll just have to trust me.”

Lucas thinks quietly, _I already do. Probably too much,_ and they both bend down to slide into the car. Eliott can’t hide his pleasure at being on the smooth leather seats again, and he feels around, stroking the car door and console and Lucas snickers. “Freak,” he mumbles fondly, and Eliott flips him a finger. 

As Lucas drives away from the curb and back onto the streets, brain and hands already working together to begin the familiar route to the meadow. Eliott pulls out his phone, connecting to the Bluetooth in the Benz, scrolling through what Lucas can see is a massive library when he glances over.

He’s about to crack a joke, snake in a smooth comment, but Eliott selects a song and [it begins.](https://youtu.be/kj7PGkYX1xk) Slow, building and building, filling up Lucas’ ears with the volume. It pulses through the speakers, electric and mellow, and Lucas moves his head along with the beat, aviators only sliding a bit on the bridge of his nose. _Damn,_ it’s cool.

They slink through the streets of Paris, low and cruising. 

_Overload, overload, overload, coming up to the_

_Overload, overload, overload, coming up to the…_

The roads less traveled are turned on, slick roads turning to rough pavement turning to dirt roads turning to trodden grass under the wheels, and Lucas feels a stirring, a working, in his chest. After an hour of Eliott’s music pulsing through his car, swimming in his brain... Lucas feels like it’s becoming personal. The thought makes him blanche, a little.

They pull up to the meadow, and they both step out of the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank yall so much for all the reads and comments, i reply to them all 💕


	7. vii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's just uhh collectively ignore the past 72 hours in the skam france universe and have some fluff instead :)
> 
> thank you to mes goblins and the sharing love gc, i love you all ❤️️
> 
> oh also sorry i forgot to add, warning in advance for mentions of homophobia 💔

Saturday, 14:51

It’s audible, the sigh Lucas releases as they step outside of the car and into the meadow. This is his safe haven, away from all the noise and the fear and the memories that swim murkily in his brain. It’s serene and quiet, still. A light breeze ruffles the clusters of purple daises and pink tulips, softens the waving grass, which comes alive steadily into its greenness for the early spring. 

How lovely is the silence of growing things. 

The car doors shutting from the Benz echoes in Lucas and Eliott’s ears, but quickly fades away across the breeze. They stand by the opposite doors, just watching, breathing in the clean floral air. They don’t move for a minute, only taking it in. 

“It’s more beautiful than I remember,” Eliott mumbles, breaking their silence. Lucas stares over at him as the words replay in his brain, over and over. _More beautiful than I remember._

At this point of a pull, Lucas would turn on the charm by now. He would smile, lopsided with the perfect flash of teeth, wave his arms forward and say something cheesily cute like _”shall we?”_ and make sure they’re overloaded with saccharine sweetness before going in for the kill.

But not so, in this moment. Lucas doesn’t have to say a word; they both drift forward on their own accord, drawn into the center of the meadow, where the flowers grow in a swirl and an especially soft patch of grass sits, almost as if it’s waiting for them. Eliott catches Lucas’ eye in a gleam, smile gracing his cheeks, as they sit down together, knees crossed, face to face. Lucas takes off his aviators and throws them away in the grass, not wanting to be _that_ dick, and he hopes to God Eliott doesn’t notice the redness of his lids or the sunken undereyes. Lucas feels vulnerable, like he’s in grade school, again, squeamish and meek and submitting to orders. But he watches Eliott, in the same position, who doesn’t say anything about his eyes, even if he notices it, and it helps ease the feeling.

“So,” Eliott begins, breaking the silence again, and Lucas is not used to someone else taking the reins, “had any plans for today? Were we just gonna sit and play pattycake?” 

Lucas smirks and laughs, chiming and light. “Maybe so,” he says with a wink, and he feels springy and enchanted and soft, everything effortless and easy, but not in the way that makes him bored. In the way that excites him. 

Eliott’s eyes flare in pleased surprise, and he reaches his hands forward for Lucas to take. Lucas’ gaze flashes down and his lips quirk, his heart squeezing in his chest. Is this boy really gonna be that fucking cute?

Lucas reaches his hands forward too and they begin the game, clapping their hands together in the rhythm, then patting their knees, then returning back to hands. Eliott laughs loudly, unabashedly delighted, and Lucas has to break away from the game to roll backwards and cover his face with his hands. His smile is too fucking wide. He has to push it back in before his cheeks explode.

“Alright alright alright,” Eliott says, still giggling, as Lucas rolls back up. “That worked for a minute.”

“Only a minute,” Lucas agrees with a grin.

“What should we do for the next minute, then?” Eliott asks sweetly, warmth lining his eyes and pouring out of his skin, and it slips out of Lucas without thinking.

“This next minute, we’ll kiss.”

Eliott flushes at the same time Lucas does, the words sinking in for both. A pit grows in Lucas’ stomach; too soon, maybe too soon… but then Eliott bites his lip, shy eyes flitting away for a minute, before: leaning forward on his knees tentatively, reservedly, he joins their lips in a kiss.

Lucas closes his eyes and the relief - the pure, elated joy - washes over him in serenity, bathing him, softening him. His hands slide up to grab Eliott’s neck and run fingers in his hair, holding his head closer, pulling him in – and Eliott’s hands do the same. They keep each other’s smiling cheeks in their hands as their lips meet again, over and over.

Eliott pushes forward, insistent, backed with a whine, uncomfortable from his hunched position on his knees. So Lucas lowers himself down, taking Eliott as he goes with him, and they spend only a few seconds to situate themselves. Eliott settles the lines of his body over Lucas’, his legs draped over either side of his waist, pressing over him in comfortable weight. 

They break apart momentarily, Eliott’s head haloed by the sun above him from where Lucas lies. His skin is golden and soft, reflected by the sun; does Eliott take from the sun or does the sun take from him? When he smiles and leans forward, joining their lips again, Lucas thinks he might be inclined to say the latter.

Lucas drifts down from holding Eliott’s face in his hands and slides them over his body, his back, tender, and only a bit too slow - his skin fraught to savor every second of it. He feels like he could burst with how _much_ of it he feels. A shaky breath escapes between them, a tremor rocking Lucas’ spine, and he settles his hands on Eliott’s hips. He holds him there, just above him.

Time passes in waves as slow and composed and cadenced as the ocean, drawing up and receding back, over and over. The sun follows its sleepy trail in the sky, warming the earth, brightening the colors of the flowers and tending the grass, and Lucas and Eliott kiss and kiss and kiss. Slight gasps escape when they come up for air, but never do they separate – Eliott’s mouth begins to taste of nothing but tongue and skin and swiped spit. It tastes like nothing except for _him._

Not once does Lucas think of how much he’ll miss Eliott’s mouth when they break apart. Not once does he think of his mother or school or piano lessons with Mika or Yann or what lies locked away behind his childhood bedroom door. He doesn’t think of any of it, not for a split second, not at all. He lives in the moment, in what time has to offer, now, surrendered on his back, the boy he kisses lying above him.

 

Saturday, 16:22  
Lucas wishes he had a joint they could share, but at the same time, he feels on a high already. He can’t remember the last time he felt this blissful, body completely pliant and limber as Eliott lies his head in his lap – not a single strain of anxiety tenses his muscles.

Eliott’s hair is warm from the sun as Lucas traces the soft strands between his fingers. They haven’t said much between them, since they finally came up from a hundred meters underwater with their kissing. _An hour of it._ A full hour of Eliott’s tongue in Lucas’ mouth, of their hips pressed together… if he starts thinking about it again, he’ll shiver, so he puts a plug in it. For now, at least.

Like he keeps doing today, Eliott is the first to speak after they break apart for good, first to strike up a conversation. Lucas’ usual charm, his pretty and shiny words that he can turn on with the flick of a switch, seems distant. A little inaccessible, almost. But he doesn’t really need it right now, he doesn’t think. He’s content to sit in silence with Eliott’s head in his lap as he speaks, lightly scratching his scalp, (probably – likely – most definitely) unable to unwind his fingers from Eliott’s hair.

“I want to tell you something,” Eliott says, quiet, the softness in his tone coming from shyness instead of relaxation. Lucas traces around his ear and a shiver goes down Eliott’s spine; it makes Lucas grin in satisfaction. 

“Shoot,” Lucas says softly, encouraging, and Eliott takes a breath.

“I saw you on the first day I arrived here,” he begins, closing his eyes, and Lucas stops stroking his hand through his hair; instead, he stills, the curls caught between his fingers, and he listens. The breeze stops ruffling the flowers, and they listen too.

“It was bad, at my old school. I had this one group of friends, same since grade school. We all hung out together every day. And in that group of friends, there was this one boy, who… last year, I realized I had a crush on. I tried to get rid of it. I tried to stop thinking that way about him, I tried so fucking hard. The things I did to myself, to try to stop it… But it wouldn’t go away. I knew it wouldn’t go away so I tried to stay away from him instead, but that didn’t work either. He would’ve noticed if I pulled away, and then he would’ve asked me why, and I would have to tell him…

“So I stayed around him. And I tried to push the feelings down, and it just kept getting worse and worse. Until one day, while we were hanging out alone together at his house, I couldn’t do it anymore. I kissed him.” Eliott takes a pause for the first time to grimace at himself. “I kissed him and he was shocked. Mad. So mad. I remember… pulling away from him, staring at his mouth, and then glancing at his eyes and realizing how angry he was. It was terrifying. I worried, for a second, that he might…

“He kicked me out and told me never to come back. And as I was walking back to my own house, I kept thinking, _’I should be crying, why am I not crying?’_ but nothing could come out. Nothing. I was just empty. 

“It got around the school fast that I had kissed him. That group of friends cut me off without a second thought; I haven’t spoken to any of them since. Rumors started to spread about me, how disgusting I was, to come onto my friend like that… I kept getting things in my locker. Hate notes and threats. My parents had to come talk to the principal, to ask about my safety, but nothing could be done. They were anonymous.

“I got cornered at school one day by a group of boys who got in my face, asking me really dirty and awful questions, like how often I’d jacked off when I stayed over at my friends’ houses, telling me how disgusting I was… a teacher came by and stopped them, but I was shaken, so fucking shaken. I couldn’t stop thinking about how much more serious it could have gotten if the teacher hadn’t stepped in.

“I told my parents about it and they said they’d had enough. That they were gonna start the process of transferring my schools. I couldn’t say much about it, because I knew they were right. I had to go somewhere else before… something really bad could happen.” His voices wavers a little bit, but he pulls it back in as soon as he’s lost it.

“So, I came here. I was miserable, and numb, sitting in the principal’s office and talking to her about how I was going to integrate into classes and catch up with material I’d missed. All I could think was that I’d probably make friends with another boy and try and kiss him too and fuck it all up and have to start over again. I was so mad at myself, stewing in that fucking chair across from the principal, for being so dirty and shameless that I could come on to another boy like that without controlling myself. And then, I looked out of the window. And that’s when I saw you.

“You were across the schoolyard, standing next to some boy. He was blushing so hard I could see it all the way from the window. And you were so obviously flirting with him… charming him, touching his arms, making him laugh. I couldn’t believe it. I watched you blatantly flirting with this boy, in public, and him liking it… and I just couldn’t believe how open you were about it. No shame, or fear. Just making him smile. And that making you smile, in return.

“I can’t describe… how much that calmed me. Comforted me. Maybe I could find something like that, someday. Maybe I could find someone who would kiss me back. Who would flirt with me in public, and it wouldn’t be disgusting. We could just _be_ together, exist, without any shame.”

Lucas has absolutely no fucking idea what to say. None. Nothing is coming out. His mouth is dropped open, dumbstruck, devastated. What does he say to that? How the fuck does he reply?

Eliott leans his head back in Lucas’ lap so their eyes meet, and his eyes crinkle in a smile. “Really funny that it turned out to be you, too, huh?” 

“Oh, Eliott,” Lucas says in a whisper, a slight choke, and Eliott shakes his head. 

“I’m fine now. Really, I am. I’m thanking you, sincerely, for what that day did for me, and we’re gonna move on. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Lucas nods slowly, in acceptance, and Eliott grabs Lucas’ hands still in his hair. He brings them down and holds them against his chest, holding his embrace, closing his eyes with bliss. Lucas stares down at him in awe and decides, officially and conciously, that he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life.

 

Saturday, 18:29

They both lie in the grass, heads together, but legs sprawled out in the opposite direction. Lucas faces Eliott, but he’s upside down, his body running the other way. They’ve both been trading light jokes, making cracks, staring up at the sky as the colors turn. “It’s gonna get dark soon,” Lucas whispers, once, but they pay no mind.

“What do you think would’ve happened, if we hadn’t met?” Eliott asks quietly, thoughtfully. Lucas turns it over in his head, following threads of possibilities, not liking the little stings of anxiety each of them give his heart.

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully, in a frown. 

“I think we would’ve met somewhere, somehow. Someplace else,” Eliott says, striking and bold, and it makes Lucas smile.

“Oh really?”

“Yes,” Eliott nods, laughing, with self-satisfaction or with grandiosity, Lucas can’t tell. “In a parallel universe. How many parallel Lucas and Eliott’s do you think there are?”

Lucas closes his eyes, picturing it all. A parallel Lucas swimming in Bali. A parallel Lucas running a stockbroker firm in New York. A parallel Lucas who ate cereal for breakfast today instead of toast. Endless possibilities, strings running out from all sides of his center. He follows a few of them in his mind, daydreaming. His heart twists a little in his chest when he thinks about parallel Lucases that could’ve been happier… a little more secure… a little less severed, inside. His daydreaming smile drops into a frown, brow furrowing.

“Infinitely many,” Lucas finally answers, and Eliott giggles. 

“In infinite time,” Eliott continues, and they fall silent. Time passes for a few moments, lilting, dragging across the flowered floor. Then Eliott picks it back up.

“I don’t like to think about that much, though. I think life is more like a movie, and you can be the director of your own life.”

“Oh yeah?” Lucas says conversationally, though his head is still a bit murky. His heart still a bit cracked. 

“Yeah,” Eliott sighs, and he leans himself forward to stroke his nose along Lucas’ cheek, upside down from him. It makes him shiver. “I think all this stuff about fate and the inevitable and waiting for the universe to do good by you is shit. We all make our own choices. _Our_ choices are what directs us – it comes from us, not from some law already written in the stars.”

“Wow. Deep,” Lucas teases, lifting his head a little to meet Eliott’s eye, where he sees a gleam.

“Have you never thought about it? It’s so interesting!” Eliott says, excitedly, earnestly, so full of sweetness and generosity and youthful abashment. 

“Nah…” Lucas professes, and his fingers are, quite suddenly, itching for paper, his throat swelling in want of smoke... he wishes he had a fucking joint. “I don’t like that thought. Of the burden of all choices being on us. Makes me feel out of control…” he says quietly, and he feels like he’s exposing tissue with each word, “out of control over what’s wrong and what’s right. If it’s all up to me, how do I know I made the right choice?”

Eliott contemplates this, staring up at the sky. Purple starts to teem at the edges, peeking in, blanketing the grass and flowers surrounding them in a muted warmth. His skin glows, still, from the sun. “I think that’s why it’s so freeing. If it’s all up to us, we know we’re making the right choices. We’re completely in control; there’s no God or fate or anything like that to tell us what we’re doing wrong.”

Lucas tilts his head into Eliott more, body opening, ears opening, heart opening. He listens, hanging onto every single word. “But how do you know that? How do you give up entertaining all the possibilities, how do you give up the worry over if a choice you made was the right one? Doesn’t it scare you, to give it away like that? Give away your control by submitting to one thing? Let it all go?”

Eliott shakes his head, eyes earnest. “Not at all. I think that by admitting that you don’t have control, you take it back anyway, in a way. Instead of losing yourself in all the possibilities and missed chances, you recognize your own power in letting it all go. And you just live your life instead. You direct yourself. Everything you do, it’s all up to you.”

Lucas becomes acutely aware of every single point and line on his body, where the grass slightly itches against him, where the clean, earthy air enters his lungs, where the sides of his hair brushes against Eliott’s neck. Something… deep, something very deep inside him, has just been struck. He doesn’t even know, where to begin… where to find the words to describe…

Instead, he brings his hand up to bury in Eliott’s hair, soft, with bits of grass stuck in the messiness. He holds Eliott’s head close and he directs him to face him, sliding the tip of his nose down the bridge of Eliott’s before connecting their mouths. He kisses Eliott instead because he can’t find the words. And when Eliott opens up under him, smiling against his lips, tongue slipping inside, Lucas thinks that he doesn’t need the words anyway.

 

Saturday, 20:10

It’s properly dark now outside. Once the sun began to fade, night creeping in, sky turning to dusk, Lucas had gone back to the Benz and turned the headlights on to make a light for them. Eliott had smacked his arm, absolutely scandalized, screeching, “but that’s going to kill your battery!” and Lucas had merely shrugged with a grin in reply.

“Don’t know what that means, nor do I care,” he’d said, and Eliott had just shook his head incredulously. It took a full ten minutes before he’d allow Lucas to kiss him again.

So they sat in their little swirl of grass for hours longer, watching the sun set officially, waiting for the moon to make her appearance. They’d made out, again, for a little while longer, Eliott squirming on top of Lucas’ lap as they lay down together. It was really fucking hot to see Eliott’s body, the outline of his messy floppy curly hair, turn into shadows from the headlights flaring behind him. Lucas’ hips might’ve bucked a little without thinking.

But now, the hours are winding down. Lucas had to go rummage in his Benz for something to cover them up from the chill setting in, and he’d found a blanket, which now drapes over them as they lie side by side. Eliott yawns, a little sleepy groan accompanying it. Lucas’ own eyes start to droop too. He feels at peace, down to his bones. 

“Think we should go?” Eliott whispers into the air, and is he speaking to just Lucas? Or the flowers too? “The drive back is a while.”

Lucas groans, squeezing his eyes shut. “No. Don’t wanna go back. Don’t wanna do homework or cook or shower or take care of things. Can’t we just stay here forever?”

Even in the darkness, Lucas swears he can hear Eliott smiling, it’s so wide. He swears he can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks in a blush. “We could. But I don’t think the grass would appreciate us sleeping on it. It needs to sleep, too.”

Lucas rolls his eyes, snorting, but it’s soft and fond and not at all out of superiority. “Alright. If you say so, hippie boy. I’m under your command, after all.”

Slowly, slowly, as they wake up from their long, dreamy nap, they rise. They pull themselves out of the Earth. Their limbs crack and roll as they stretch them, they’ve been so dormant. So sleepy. Lucas thinks this has been the longest day of his entire life – and he means that with nothing but the best of intentions.

It feels a bit woozy to stand up again. Eliott carries the blanket – and Lucas grabs his long forgotten aviators – and they walk back to the car. Lucas turns the keys. Pulls into reverse. He does it all so slowly and carefully, feeling every moment – he feels like time is happening at half speed.

“Are you gonna play your music again? Or are we going to have to suffer through some elevator jazz on the radio?” Lucas ribs, so flirty and charming and cheery as he faces Eliott in the passenger seat. Eliott blushes and bites his lip, clearly flattered, and pulls out his phone again. Lucas watches his fingers press the button, type on the keys, and he’s so endeared. So fond. Eliott is so cute. Pretty and hot and so so cute.

He turns back to the road as Eliott selects a song, watching the dark edges of the road blur by in his vision. The dim city lights swim in the distance, and Lucas scans the skyline, taking it all in. He thinks… he can even feel his pupils blow, as he’s hit with the sudden fucking realization that life is happening right now in front of his very eyes and he is drinking in every moment he can get.

[The song begins.](https://youtu.be/MV_3Dpw-BRY) It rings in Lucas’ ears, the slick tremors, the bass, the dark, beating waves of electric melancholy. It pierces him, makes him close his eyes… momentarily, before he snaps them back open. He glances over to Eliott, quick as he possibly can, and sees him staring out the windshield, eyes unwavering. _I’m gonna show you where it’s dark, but have no fear…_

He swallows. They drive into the night.

 

Saturday, 21:24

Paris is alive all around them as the Benz slinks through the streets. Bars of streetlights pass over them, flashing their faces in darkness then in light, and a hush has befallen them. Eliott’s playlist ran out just a little bit ago and Lucas couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t say anything. He could feel the tense air creeping its way in through the windows and the cracks, and now it’s come up upon them and choked them.

A turn approaches soon. An actual turn that Lucas has to steer through and decide Lucas is driving down precarious fucking roads here, and his jaw is wound so tight he might crush his own bones. _Does he take Eliott home? Does he leave him, like he did last time? Or does he take him back to his own home… does he let him in…_

Lucas has to pull over. He can’t drive with all the thoughts pressing in, screaming at him, screaming. He’s eight years old again, cowering in the corner, because his mother’s voice is loud and piercing as she berates him for letting Ouba get mud into the kitchen.

Eliott clears his throat when they pull to a stop, just squeezed in on a random curb between other cars. People walk on the sidewalks around them, but the windows are so dark, they can’t see a thing inside. Within Lucas’ head, he’s deliberating so hard, so forcefully, he thinks he might be in agony.

“Lucas?” Eliott asks tentatively, the tiniest tremors of fear shaking his voice. Lucas looks over to him, sweeps over his creased brows and lips pulled in a frown and his eyes, concerned, worried, fearful, open, honest, so fucking honest. How honest has he been today? How much has he opened up, skinned himself, laid it out for Lucas to see? And what the fuck has Lucas offered in return?

Lucas inhales sharply, exhales shakily, and he decides. He directs his own fucking life.

“The reason why I dropped you off that first night in the meadow without any explanation was because my mother was having an episode. She has bad mental health issues. Obsessive thoughts, and compulsions to control. It manifests itself in the need to keep the house spotless, more than spotless, actually. She used to punish me when I was a kid for letting things get dirty or out of order.”

Eliott looks shocked, blown away by this sudden outpour, but Lucas carries on. He can’t stop. He won’t stop. 

“She’s doing a lot better now than she used to. She’s been on medication for years, that’s helped keep it under control. But sometimes she does have her episodes. And I have to help her through them. I have to make sure she goes through her counseling sessions and gets out of the house and doesn’t spend all the hours in the day scrubbing the already clean floors. So that night, when I left you, I had to go check on her. All this week, why I’ve been gone, is because I’ve been staying with her. Making sure she’s okay. I have to do that for her because I’m the only person in her life who will.”

Lucas finally takes a breath, and with it, his lungs, his body, feel on the verge of a collapse. Just with some words, only some words, he’s utterly exhausted. His muscles ache. It’s all been taken out of him.

Eliott doesn’t say anything for a while. They both sit in silence, letting this process. Letting it pass. Before finally, Eliott reaches a hand forward, slow and gentle, caring and mindful of space, and swipes his thumb under Lucas’ eyes. He traces the tired, dark skin, touch light and fluttering, and Lucas closes his eyes. 

“I wondered why…” Eliott whispers. “Thank you for telling me. We don’t have to talk about it anymore.”

Lucas nods, pressing his lips together before they threaten to shake, and Eliott’s touch moves along with him. He holds his cheek briefly in his hands before it falls. It’s another minute before Lucas moves again, shifting out of park, pulling off the curb. He stretches his fingers on the steering wheel, once, before settling and stilling them. He fears one more move, one more fidget, one more crack in the dam, could break everything and flood everything and crash everything. So he stays still. And he begins the drive to his home.

If Eliott lets out a little squeak when they pass the turn to start the route to his own apartment, he doesn’t press it further. Lucas glances at him out of the very corner of his eye to find a small smile, a sweet bow in his lips, and he can’t help smiling himself, too. 

The music that fills their ears this time, while driving back to Lucas’ home, is the street clattering around them. The sound of the wheels running over the road. People shouting, talking, laughing on the sidewalks, everyone steering themselves in their own lives, living on the fringes of Lucas’ knowledge. There’s depth to them that Lucas will never know. All they’ll ever be is extras. Background noise.

They make it to Lucas’ apartment, and he parks the car in front. None of the lights on in the windows from what Lucas can see. He glances up quickly and sends a quick thank you to anyone who’s listening: bless them, bless them. He has ideas in mind, for what he wants to do… and none of them involve taking the time to introduce Eliott to Manon and Mika and dealing with their stupid reactions and questions.

They both get out of the car, slowly and methodically, patient, even though Lucas can feel an energy building in his core. Warmth. His blood heating. His break down, earlier, his breach of trust in himself, his exposure to this boy that walks beside him… it’s a layer shaved away, from the walls closed in around him. And now, thinking back on it, it only serves to strengthen him. He fucking did it. He made a choice and he lived through it. He feels confident. He feels in control. He feels like he could swallow the world whole.

Eliott’s smile is so beautiful and light and giddy – did the sun go to sleep, after all? – but his eyes will not meet Lucas’, not as they go up the walkway together, not as they ascend the outside staircase to reach the second floor of apartments, not as Lucas takes his keys out of his pocket and turns them in the door, pushing it open with a creak. His eyes won’t meet Lucas for a second. He’s shy, so shy, so sweet and fucking shy. Lucas is _beyond_ endeared.

“Gonna come in?” he says with a grin, hand darting out to tickle Eliott’s rib, and Eliott blushes. “It’s okay. I won’t bite. Not right now, at least.”

A new rush of blood stains Eliott’s cheeks, enflaming them, and Lucas smirks, a bit. He’s self-satisfied, what can he say? Eliott’s always the same. He’s been the same, so easy to tease and rise and coax a blush out of. Lucas can’t wait to take him to his bed and lose himself in that sameness again… it hits him, very suddenly, that it’s been a week and a day since they last… and he shivers. 

Lucas leads him into his home. Nobody is awake and in the living room, fucking around watching the TV, or anything – Lucas is the most blessed man on Planet fucking Earth. “So,” Lucas begins, gesturing around in a grand sweep. “My name is Lucas Lallemant, and welcome to my crib.”

That makes Eliott laugh, sharp and light, and it breaks through some of the nervous energy he’s carrying. Lucas smiles at him, eyes twinkling, encouraging. He’s getting so soft. He’s getting so fucking soft, for this boy that stands in his living room, biting his lip, toes turned in shyly, holding his hands behind his back. What has he fucking gotten himself into? What has he done, by pulling Eliott in and blowing glittery fucking smoke into his mouth?

Lucas rushes forward, slipping hands around Eliott’s waist sliding them up his back, and meets their mouths together. They open and open under each other, natural and easy and without shame or fear. Eliott’s hands immediately surge up to cradle Lucas’ neck, thumbs sliding under the hem of his shirt, hips pressing forward of their own accord. He lets out a whine. His pretty, pretty whines. Lucas holds him in by the small of his back as he leads them to his room, their feet dancing between each other as they try to walk together, and he fumbles for the doorknob to turn, unable to tear away from Eliott’s mouth. Not even for that.

Breaths heavy and loaded between them, Lucas finally gets his door open and they spill in. Lucas has climbed his fingers under Eliott’s shirt, stroking over his back, feeling his skin under _his_ skin and nearly shaking with how good it feels. How good it all fucking feels. He thinks back to just moments before, and without reservation, he decides that he doesn’t fucking care what he’s done to himself by pulling Eliott in. He doesn’t care.

Eliott breaks apart with a small moan, trying to get his breath under control, throwing his head back against the wall of Lucas’ room. A thrill runs up Lucas’ spine as he watches him, his squirming little body, his pink skin, his bitten lips, his sharp fucking jaw. His long, slender neck that Lucas wants to suck under his teeth. “Good?” Lucas whispers, rasping, walls expanding around him as his pupils dilate. 

Eliott nods, desperate, whining like fucking _always,_ and rushes back in. He charges forward to push Lucas to his bed, climbing over him, settling heavy over his hips and chest, and Lucas feels like he’s choking for air. Eliott surrounds him, shoving his tongue in his mouth, weight pressing down on all sides, pushing in and in and down and down, reaching into Lucas’ ribs and unwinding his insides. It’s without mercy. Completely without mercy as Eliott moans above him and grinds his hips down and leaves his spit in his mouth.

But Lucas lets him take it all, and he gives just as much of himself, in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😊
> 
> tumblr: summerhyuck, hmu if you have questions or just wanna talk!
> 
> [Ficpost](http://summerhyuck.tumblr.com/post/183368473276/you-cut-through-all-the-noise-by-27tattoos-ao3) here if you'd like to reblog!


	8. viii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it took a little longer than usual, but i hope the longer-than-usual word count makes up for it!
> 
> instead of thinking and sobbing about how close we are to the end of lucas' season, read some fluff instead :)
> 
> many thanks to give: Zoe for the piano wisdom, Cléa and Louna for their French pop song expertise, and mes goblins for all their suggestions for the party playlist. Love yall 💞

Sunday, time unknown

Lucas blinked himself awake half an hour ago. Usually he stretches his limbs when he gets up, cracking his vertebrae, the routine much like a cat’s. But with Eliott weighing his arm down, snuggled into his side, it’s no longer an option. Instead, he stares at him, eyes flickering over his face. His pretty pretty face. Lucas traces his bones with his touch, along his jaw, across his cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose. He notices something that he never has before; that Eliott’s ears stick out a little bit. Like an elf. Or a kitten. It’s hopelessly fucking endearing.

After minutes more of fluttering his fingers over Eliott’s sweet, sleeping face, Eliott rouses, and Lucas watches him pull himself out of sleep. He knows what that looks like now, and he feels like it’s a secret to keep. When Eliott’s eyes slowly drip open, bleary and wet, Lucas can’t help the smile that cracks his cheeks.

“What time is it?” Eliott asks, voice rough and scratched, and a dull sting of arousal hums within Lucas, just under the surface. He licks his lips, eyes darkening, lids lowering.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” he replies, surging forward to kiss him. Eliott returns it out of habit but then forces himself away, giggling. 

“I haven’t brushed my teeth! Yuck!” he exclaims, scandalized, but Lucas shakes his head.

“Don’t care, don’t care,” he repeats, lunging forward again, but latching on to his neck instead. He tongues Eliott’s skin, warm and beating, and he can feel the shiver that passes through him under his teeth.

They’ve both begun to wake up now, the hair rising on their arms, their hands coming alive as they snake them around each other’s waists. The bed creaks as Lucas lifts himself and climbs on top of Eliott, lining their bodies, chest to hips. He still works on Eliott’s neck, sucking a love bite into the little patch behind Eliott’s ear that bends under his tongue. Eliott’s whining is fucking maddening.

Lucas finally pulls away to admire his work, a pink welt already forming, just visible when he looks at him from above. He smirks, dragging his gaze to Eliott’s face, and his jaw tightens when he sees how _whipped_ he looks. A conversation from what already feels like months and months ago pops into Lucas’ head… _Basile, looks like you still don’t understand the difference between wanting to fuck and wanting to_ get _fucked._

God. Lucas feels like he’s on a ledge - a precarious ledge. One more touch from Eliott, one more buck of his hips, one more of his breathy little moans ringing in Lucas’ ears, and he’s going to fucking snap. He has to calm himself the fuck down, tame the waves, rein it all back in. He gets an idea. 

He climbs off of Eliott’s body, and they both shiver at the sudden loss of heat in the center of their bodies. It’s made even worse when Lucas swings himself off of the bed and takes the blanket with him, leaving Eliott alone, naked body exposed. Vulnerable. Lucas can see the goosebumps rise instantly on his skin. 

“Hey!” he cries, frowning deep, eyes betrayed. “Why’d you do that, you asshole?”

Lucas traps his lip under his teeth and, standing at the foot of the bed, looming over Eliott like he’s in rule, makes a point of raking his eyes over his body, heading to fucking toe, lingering in places… and Eliott understands, suddenly, biting his own lip too. He exhales shakily, his muscles flexing, spasming, as he squirms on the sheets.

Lucas, suave, collected, slinking, creeps back onto his bed. Comes on to Eliott, and, from under his eyelashes, feels like he’s close to fucking him already. His lips spread into a smirk without him realizing; a second nature response to someone submitting themselves over to him. He crawls in between Eliott’s legs, and they fall apart instantly, naturally. Eliott’s breath turns ragged.

“Fuck, fuck,” he groans, over and over and over, as Lucas runs his palms over the soft insides of his thighs. He’s pleading and begging and whining and all of it is making Lucas feel heady. So fucking heady. He’s drunk. He looks down at Eliott’s thighs, dark and hungry as he takes in all this skin, there for him, all for him, when he spots a vein running along his thigh, just barely there, on the underside. It’s only the slightest line, a tiny raise under his skin, yet Lucas can see it quivering… his mouth floods with wetness, his blood rushing to his ears. _Fuck,_ he has to…

“Lucas?” Eliott questions, voice so fucking breathy and high, and Lucas answers by winding his hands around Eliott’s thighs and hiking them up abruptly, forcefully, pulling him up to his chest. Eliott yelps, surprised, but it pans out into a moan when Lucas ducks down and attaches his mouth to that long, mild, _fucking_ vein. 

The skin of the inside of Eliott’s thighs is so fucking silky and downy and supple and velvety and burning with warmth and _infuriatingly_ soft. Lucas doesn’t ever ever ever want to move his mouth away. Ever. He flats his tongue out and licks along the vein, a long, wet stripe, and he can’t pay his full attention to Eliott writhing underneath him but he knows it’s fucking crazy. He’s gone crazy. How does this make him more crazy than if Lucas were to suck his dick? This kid, this kid… he’s going to kill Lucas.

“Lucas, Lucas, Lucas,” Eliott says, over and over, until it doesn’t sound like his name anymore. Lucas pulls back for a moment, pupils blowing when he sees the three separate bite marks he’s left along the vein, all lined up in a neat little row. “Please, please,” and his voice doesn’t sound like his voice anymore, either. Eliott’s voice gone, and Lucas’ name gone. Maybe it’s poetic somehow, but Lucas doesn’t care, because Eliott’s pleading is turning into wracking sobs and he can see how bruised and red and fucked the hickeys on his thighs are becoming and he can’t fucking think, and he’s overcome. Overcome. 

It’s impulse only when he falls forward to join their lips together, clumsy and messy and desperate and more teeth than anything but it’s real and honest and stripped down and bare. Lucas wants him. He tells him without using words.

 

Sunday, 13:09

They eventually emerge from Lucas’ bedroom who knows how later, little goblins coming out of their cave. They walk down the hallway, their only clothing their boxers and thin, open jackets draped over their shoulders, and draw to the laughter and chattering and clumsy piano chords coming from the living room. Eliott glances at Lucas shyly once before they walk into the room, biting his lip, but Lucas gives him a small, encouraging nod. 

The clashing of the piano keys abruptly stops and is replaced by Mika’s screeching harpy of a voice, saying, “has the bunny fucking stopped?? Do I not have to cover it all up anymore??”

Lucas laughs while Eliott’s cheeks flame, and Lucas brushes a hand down his wrist when he notices to help combat it, take him down a notch. “It has. We’ve stopped our terrorizing.”

Lucas watches his roommates as he and Eliott stand in the living room, their chests and legs exposed. Mika’s at the piano bench, Manon on the couch with her feet propped on the coffee table and a mug in her hands. His self-satisfaction swells and tides at the looks on their faces once they take Eliott in, processing him; they’re in complete awe. Lucas is much too fucking cocky; he wants to brag, he wants to smirk, he wants to assert, _yeah, that’s mine. Look but don’t touch._ But instead, he preens, finding bliss in thinking about how completely fucking whipped they’re going to be from this moment on.

“Who is this cutie?” Mika starts, swiveling around on the bench, wagging his eyebrows _far_ too boldly and already being fucking annoying, and Lucas rolls his eyes while Eliott blushes further. Manon’s eyes twinkle as she sits in her little corner.

“Hands off,” Lucas says, scowling, but Eliott giggles shyly, crossing his arms together in comfort, to shield, but telling them his name with a meek little peep nonetheless. 

“Nice to meet you, Eliott,” they both chime politely, and Lucas narrows his eyes. He’ll let them continue… for now, if they behave. Eliott nods at them sweetly with a small _salut_ , and Lucas’ eyes soften as he watches him nudge himself into their space, floating on the edges, one foot in and one foot out. He’s getting there.

“This is Manon,” Lucas steps up to introduce, “you probably have seen her around school. And this is Mika,” he continues, and he smirks in anticipation of his joke, “to whom I’ve been trying to teach piano, but it’s clearly not working out.”

Mika gasps in mock offense, and Eliott breaks out into a thread of giggles while Manon just snorts into her sips of coffee. “How dare you, my little Lulu. The disrespect. But aha! Doesn’t it reflect worse on the teacher if the student is terrible?”

Lucas narrows his eyes and pulls the most mature move he possesses in his repertoire: sticking out his tongue. But Eliott turns to him, suddenly, in pleasant surprise, eyes flashing. “I didn’t know you played the piano,” he says quietly, wondrously, smiling with the newfound knowledge, and Lucas shrugs, a little self-conscious.

“Not much, anymore, really,” he deprecates, bringing a hand up to rub his neck. “I played a lot more when I was younger. I’m not as good as I used to be.”

There’s a moment of silence where Lucas can _hear_ Mika roll his eyes. “I’m gonna stop you right there, champ,” Mika says, holding his hand up and closing his fingers together. The piano bench creaks as he stands up and he approaches Eliott, grabbing his arms and holding him in front of him, a stern parent, who’s also being sort of flirty? Lucas wants to smack his hands away.

“Eliott! Cutie! Listen here,” he says, snapping his fingers in Eliott’s face to get his attention. “Lulu here is much too humble for his own good. It’s extremely fucking annoying that he gets the talent _and_ the good heart too. Unfair, really. So don’t believe him for a single second when he says he isn’t good at something, because he probably, most definitely is.” Then Mika pulls away, clapping his hands together with a sudden idea. “You’ll put on a concert for us! And we’ll put this business to rest.”

 _Yeah, fuck that._ Lucas begins to object to say as much, but Mika is already grabbing Eliott by the wrist and leading him to the couch, patting Manon’s leg so she’ll scoot over to make room. They all sit up eagerly now, waiting for Lucas to begin – all the previous timidity of Eliott gone entirely, now, in favor of keen anticipation – and Lucas rolls his eyes. He hates them all. He’ll never have sex with Eliott ever again, the betrayer.

Lucas sighs in reservation, in surrender, and sits down at the piano, pulling up the lid that Mika closed. As annoyed as he is, he also can’t help but feel a spark of pride at the chance to show off a little bit. He skims the surface of the keys with his fingers and turns his head around to say, “any requests?”

Mika prattles off with a few suggestions – all of them stupid, and an insult to Lucas’ skills as a pianist – and he dismisses each one with a quick wave of his hand. Manon tells Mika to shut it and throws out a suggestion for a song by Chopin, and Lucas takes it, rifling through his memories. Chopin is… not the most upbeat choice, but he begins the notes to [his most famous piece](https://youtu.be/9E6b3swbnWg) and decides to lighten it up a bit, varying the speed, darting his fingers across the keys . It’s fun, to mess around – sometimes, Lucas forgets that the piano doesn’t have to be about pouring out emotions or sorrow or getting the notes in perfect accord. Sometimes it’s just for fun.

He finishes it out with a fluttering of his fingers over two keys, and ends on a dramatic low B note. He turns back and they all break into applause, Eliott’s eyes especially shining with mirth and delight. Lucas smiles in return, prideful. 

“Can I go next, now?” Mika whines, “I have a really good one –“

Lucas shakes his head resolutely, gesturing instead to Eliott, who sits so cutely on his couch, exposed tummy squished together from his position of his elbows on his knees. “What’s your request?” he asks him sweetly, wheedling. Lucas doesn’t want to admit that he’d like to show off a bit, for Eliott… but he think he does. A little. A lot.

Eliott, taken aback, raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Me? A request?”

“Mm-hmm. First to come to mind.”

Eliott thinks for a moment, then, brightening with an idea, smiles sheepishly. “You know anything from La La Land?” Mika and Manon have a response of some sort, but Lucas doesn’t pay attention – he’s too busy rolling his eyes into the back of his head.

“ _La La Land?_ Seriously? The most tacky, cliché movie?”

Eliott has a wicked gleam in his eye, challenging him with an eyebrow and a counter. “I think I’ll correct that to second most cliché.”

Lucas laughs abruptly, shrugging at the dig, impressed, surrendering. “Alright. Alright. I’ll take that. La La Land it is.” His attention spreads out again to Manon and Mika, who are both giggling with Eliott, Manon assuring she loves that movie, Mika ribbing him sweetly. It’s a bit… eerie, how well he fits in with them.

Lucas turns back to flit his hands across the keys for the beginning notes to [Another Day of Sun](https://youtu.be/TMUHwTGKF-o), quick and sharp and bright. All three of them cheer on the couch, and Lucas shakes his head, thoroughly disillusioned in all of them, but playing on anyway. He likes to hear them all laugh. The song tapers out quickly as Lucas forgets how the rest of the song goes, so he freestyles for a bit instead, filling in the gaps with his own jazz. He finishes with a flourishing strike down of an entire chord, and turns around to hold his hand out in a bow. 

All of them clap, and laugh, and everything is so light and fun and happy in this home of his. He’s still on a high from yesterday, Eliott’s words still echoing in his brain, the ghost of his weight still pressed on Lucas’ hips, and he came twice this morning, so life has much to offer him, after all. 

They’ve all finished their applause and now Mika reverts straight back into his whining, saying, “can it _please_ be my turn now? I’ve been waiting so patiently!”

Lucas and Manon snort at the blatant mistruth, while Eliott just nods his head seriously, trying too hard to be accommodating. It’s cute. “Fine,” Lucas submits. “What is it, then?”

Mika beams, pleased. “The song that I want to play for my psychology boy, do you remember? ‘I Love You’? You’ll be reminded of what we’re working towards!”

Lucas shakes his head fondly, smiling, surprised that it wasn’t a terrible request after all. “Alright then, send me the sheet music.”

Manon asks, “how’s that going, by the way?” when Mika pulls out his phone to send the file to Lucas, and he explains it all while Lucas opens the message, glancing over the entire piece, familiarizing himself with the notes, running over them in his head a bit. Lucas doesn’t pay much attention, Mika’s voice background noise, but he thinks he hears a little _aww_ from Eliott when Mika says that the boy has been impressed with his progress so far.

“I’m going to get a fuck soon, I can feel it. Thanks to my little Lulu,” he coos, and Lucas is pulled back into the conversation, grimacing and shaking his head in disgust. Not an image he would like in his head… though he supposes it’s fair payback, for all the noise they made this morning. _God._

Lucas can’t go down memory lane right now, so instead, [he begins the song](https://youtu.be/bYNK-hktCC0). Three simple building notes to start. It makes the couch trio all stop their idle chattering about Mika’s plans for future seduction, and they tune in, careful, attentive. Lucas continues, expanding the three building notes into four, repeating them, echoing them in the room, getting faster and faster… before he starts in with the second hand.

The song is lovely. Romantic, quietly sweeping and swelling… even as Lucas follows along with the sheet music on his phone, he feels like he knows it, somehow, already. He can guess where the next notes will be before looking, like he was there to help write it, and playing it is as easy and effortless as rolling down a hill. As breathing. The room has gone silent, save for the playing… the walls and the dust and the three people on the couch all listen, ears and eyes and chests opening to allow more in.

Lucas plays on. The music pours out; his fingers are a mere tool for it to be known. He turns around when there’s a natural pause in the notes, to see their reactions, honing in on the boy in the center. He is in awe. Dreamy awe. Stars in his eyes. Lucas’ hands stutter a bit on the keys so he snaps back around to fix them, regaining the rhythm. But his heart clumsily squeezes itself together, still. 

The song finishes itself. Its ending notes loop through the room, accompanied by silence, as the melody scars itself as rosy, blooming memories. Lucas can already feel it echoing in his brain – he’s sure it might never go away. His couch trio, after the stunned silence, break into their loudest applause, and Lucas can only smile and preen softly at their praise. His eyes meet Eliott’s, and there’s something there. Something big. Something trying to be communicated, understood, between them, glimpses through the wounds… something given. Lucas can’t tear his eyes away – it would be profane.

It’s possible an eternity passes, as they stare at each other; then Eliott licks his lips and they break away naturally, the room flooding back into Lucas’ consciousness, his body coming back to him, his fingers being realized again. “Encore, encore!” Mika is shouting, Manon following his lead with her own chimes, and Lucas turns back around to play another piece, and another, and another.

The rest of the afternoon is spent this way: Lucas performing, Manon and Mika praising, time sighing, Eliott falling.

 

Monday, 09:32

In the short morning break between periods, Lucas meets up with The Boys. Arthur and Basile start their banter immediately, and Lucas, for the first time in almost two weeks, has the energy and the words to keep up. Yann eyes him coldly, a little bit; threads of guilt tighten Lucas’ throat, _”and you?”_ still sitting unanswered in his messages. He’ll explain later. Actually, he’ll have to thank him – it’s because of his message, really, that he spent the whole weekend with a boy in his car and in his bed. Yann might be the world’s greatest wingman, both intentionally and not.

They all agree to meet up again, during lunch, and Lucas resolves to tell Yann soon. Maybe not during lunch, with too many curious ears, but soon. He should probably send a message to his mother soon, too, just to check up on her. Maybe his father, as well, to confirm that his mother has been going to the counseling… the idea exhausts him, just thinking about it. So he puts it aside, for now. He’ll focus on his upcoming class instead, math.

Only Margot, Daphne’s girlfriend, is someone he’d consider his friend in that class; the rest divided into acquaintances, nuisances, and kids whose names still haven’t stuck. He greets Margot with a _salut_ as he passes her, and she waves in reply.

“Salut, Lucas. Did you do the homework over the weekend?”

Lucas shakes his head, smiling, amiable. “Nope. Had more important things to do.”

“Hmm, I can guess,” she laughs, sunny, and they chat for a bit more, exchanging pleasantries, trading off a few jokes in their back and forth. She’s too easy to charm. She and Daphy had met at the beginning of the school year, Margot a newly transferred second year searching for clubs to get involved with. Daphne, a month or so after her break up with Baz and fresh off her coming out, decided to charm her up, and it had worked, obviously – Daphne’s a powerhouse. When she wants something, she’ll get it. Like Lucas.

Margot pulls back when the bell rings and the teacher begins the class. Lucas duly fills out the notes and works on a few problems lazily, but he can’t quite think or sit or write properly – his brain not fully in it. His skin feels itchy where his phone sits in his pocket. He keeps wondering if he’ll get any texts from Eliott... keeps hoping he’ll feel that telltale buzz against his leg. After Lucas had finally offered to drive him home at 22:00 last night, they’d fooled around for a little bit in the car – by a bit, Lucas means for another hour – before Eliott had finally broken away, and shyly promised to see him tomorrow. 

A goofy smile quirks Lucas lips as he thinks of the memory, and the teacher snaps at him to pay attention. He scowls. Maybe he’ll really pull his phone out now, just to spite her. The rest of the period continues in much of the same annoyance, and the next, and the next, and by lunchtime, Lucas can finally release an aggravated fucking sigh he hadn’t realized he was housing.

As planned, Lucas meets up with The Boys in the cafeteria during lunch. They’re talking some shit that Lucas doesn’t care enough to pay attention to… his phone still lies in his pocket, nearly burning a hole with its silence. “Boys,” he snaps suddenly, and they all turn their heads. “Let’s go eat out in the commons, on the bench. It’s a nice day.”

Basile objects immediately, whining about always having to sit on the cement, but Lucas is already changing directions and they are each already following. He’ll find Eliott outside and they’ll talk face to face, if need be. Lucas would like to see his blush, anyhow. Every hour he goes without it continues to be a personal devastation.

Lucas already spots him the minute they walk outside, making their way to their bench. He’s in his usual spot at a table across the courtyard, laughing and bubbling amongst his friends, and Lucas makes a point to look at the rest of their faces, today, so they’ll look more familiar. But not for long – because Eliott spots him too, and a _smirk_ appears on his face, the little shit, as they meet eyes. Lucas’ mouth drops open a little. What does this fucking kid have to be so cocky about? He’s suspicious.

So suspicious, that he’ll bite and be the first to text. The Boys settle down into their spot for lunch, ripping open packages and bags and paper to eat, but Lucas pulls out his phone, focused. He taps out a text, not even proofreading it before hitting send.

_To: Eliott  
I’d wipe that smirk off your face_

He can see when Eliott reads it, can see his face flush, can see the defiant twist in his lips. His phone buzzes against his thigh with the incoming text.

_From: Eliott  
Dare you to make me._

Lucas reads it and his mouth goes dry, a little bit. He looks up and Eliott is already waiting to meet his gaze, raising his eyebrows, offering a challenge. Who. Is. He. Lucas won’t let it get to him, he won’t let it get to him.

 _To: Eliott  
You can’t seriously goad me into sexting you in the middle of school. That is quite honestly_ the _most cliché. I expected better :/_

There’s a pause before Eliott replies, and Lucas takes a moment to compose himself, glance nonchalantly at his friends, pretend to listen to their prattle. He can feel Eliott’s eyes on him but he won’t break. _Ping._ He looks down.

_From: Eliott  
Not cliché if I mean it._

Another ping.

_I still have the hickeys on my thigh._

Ping.

_Keep feeling them sting in class._

Ping. 

_I’ve been secretly pressing into them, to make them hurt more._

Ping.

_Want you to press on them instead._

If Lucas gets another fucking ping, he’ll die. He’ll die. Luckily, Eliott seems to be done, passing the torch to Lucas, daring him to play, and Lucas so badly fucking wants to. But if he gives in, he might have to drag Eliott to an empty classroom and fuck him in public at 13:00 in the afternoon. Not a good fucking look. Instead, his fingers frozen above his keypad, he reserves himself to just burning a hole through Eliott with his eyes instead. Isn’t that always it? That’s how he got him in the beginning. He stares, and Eliott comes.

But this time Eliott won’t back down, won’t blush or bite away a shy smile. He stares right back. And Lucas is a little… taken aback. A little stunned. A lot pleased. But mostly, fucking _aching._ He’s this fucking close to a hard on. He adjusts his position on the bench, and swallows lightly, but he won’t back down either. They’ll stare at each other all day, if they have to.

But then Arthur is snapping into his ear, surprising him, and Lucas loses. He pulls away.

“I see you and Eliott have worked things out,” he snickers, and Basile and Yann, at his words, drop their conversation and begin scanning the courtyard to find him.

“Arthur, you fucking…” Lucas hisses, smacking his arm. “Don’t look around for him, you idiots!” he snaps at the others, but it’s too late. Eliott sees them all look at him and he waves, cheeks as sweet as a cherub, eyes squinting with his smile, and Lucas widens his eyes. What a little fucking shit.

They all wave back, Arthur biting his lip to keep from laughing his head off, Yann looking far too amused, and Basile, the idiot, waving genuinely in reply. “How nice of him!” he says, and Lucas leaves the teasing to Yann and Arthur; he’s too busy shaking his head in disbelief when Eliott winks at him from across the courtyard. Played up enough for him to see. Then he breaks away completely, immersing himself back with his friends, and it’s clear he won’t look back over for the rest of lunch.

Lucas, most definitely, will make him pay for this. In spades.

 

Wednesday, 16:19

Lucas spends his afterschool time in the foyer, touching up an essay for French literature and completing his last few math assignments before he’s completely caught up from his absent work. Manon and Imane sit at the foyer table with him, both switching between scratching down notes on their notebook paper and discussing the upcoming gathering Manon is hosting at the apartment. Their silent presence usually makes him feel at ease, slowed down, but he’s jumpy today. Within the linings of his stomach is just the slightest burn.

This morning he finally spoke with Yann to clear the air, telling him what went on over the weekend, in the briefest detail he could manage. He almost feels like… to say any more, would betray Eliott’s trust. It’s something to keep between them. But Yann had been satisfied enough, breaking into that big, smirking smile of his, telling him he was happy for him. And Lucas had known he meant it. So things were good as fixed.

And now he’s waiting on a text from Arthur, due any minute now, confirming that he’ll bring him some weed soon. Lucas had to reach out this morning and ask him, because he’s absolutely sick of what’s been on hand, his cigarettes. He just wants a fucking joint – it’s not too much to ask. He glances at his phone every few minutes, and it’s bringing him out of his math work. He’s typed the same thing into his calculator four times.

“Alright?” Manon asks him, noticing his fidgeting. He nods at her quickly and smiles, but he really really fucking wishes he had that joint right about now. He’s been fine, before, but _now,_ knowing that he can get high soon, that it’s within arm’s reach, just a few minutes away, is maddening. He feels restless, and tight, like his skin has shrunk by a millimeter. 

“I’m just gonna step outside for a sec,” he says, jumping up from the table, taking only his phone with him, which he holds in a vice grip, clawed. He just. Needs a second to himself. To force his blood to slow and churn instead of rushing through his ears.

He exits the foyer and throws his back against a wall nearby, sighing heavily. Closing his eyes. Something is pressing itself into his mind, trying to be seen, to be given shape, but he refuses. He pushes it down and down and down, stomping it out, killing it. He won’t let it rise like bile in his throat. He won’t.

He’s concentrating so hard that he doesn’t notice Arthur has creeped up on him until he announces himself with a small, bewildered “salut?”

Lucas jumps, eyes snapping open, to see Arthur snort. “Alright, dude?” he says, clearly amused, and Lucas curses at him under his breath. Arthur never lets insults get to him though, not like Basile does, so he’s not nearly as fun to tease.

“I have your weed,” Arthur whispers, eyes teeming with amusement, “if you’re still so inclined.”

“Fuck,” Lucas sighs, relief tiding through him. His lungs feel itchy, swelling, with how badly he longs to breathe it in. “Thank you. Thank you, Arthur.” A little bag of weed – that, still, holds enough to supply him for a week, _God,_ he’ll be in heaven – is slipped from under Arthur’s jacket sleeve into Lucas’ hands. He quickly palms it away into his jean pocket. 

“It’s no problem, not at all. Though, you could find a way to repay…”

Lucas drops his eyes, deflated, annoyed, suspicious. “Out with it, then.”

“Tell Manon to let us come to the party on Friday and we’re even,” Arthur says with a waggle of his eyebrows, his cheek revealing his single dorky dimple, playful eyes magnified under his glasses. Lucas rolls his eyes but. He’s fond. Only a little bit, though. No more than that. 

“Alright then,” he yields, unable to help his smile. “Now get out of here. I’m about to be preoccupied.”

“I salute. Love that for you,” Arthur says as he walks away, smiling knowingly, a complete fucking dork. The kind of fucking dork that allows his meme-speak to carry over to real life. Does Lucas know why he allows Arthur to spend time around him? He really couldn’t say.

He feels buzzes in his pocket from his phone as he reenters the foyer, gathering his stuff, shooting a quick goodbye to Imane and Manon who don’t say much, preoccupied themselves. He doesn’t bother to check the incoming messages; he’s too focused, tunnel vision, his brain sharp and realized on one thing only. He counts the steps it takes for him to scurry through the hallways and dart across the courtyard to his Benz in the parking lot, before he can light up and _breathe_ and get a haze around his eyes again, let his neverending, cloying thoughts cloud and fade and turn to ash, breathed out through his lungs…

Only then, when he sits in his driver’s seat, a muddled fog around him, blurring his eyes and burning his nose and soothing and caulking the cracks in his lungs, does he check the texts. They’re from Eliott. Sluggishness weighs down his limbs and his blood like lead, but his heart beats a bit faster, anyway, when he opens them.

_The love bite behind my ear is starting to fade.. I told my mom it was a birthmark she’d just never noticed when she asked about it. And she believed me 😅_

_So I think I’ll need you to keeping putting it there forever, or else my cover’s blown. Sound good?_

_Want to hang out today?_

Fuck. He’s so fucking cute. Terribly, awfully, horrifyingly cute. _Of course_ Lucas wants to remark that tender, giving patch behind his ear… he imagines it, licking the skin, sinking his teeth… 

But he’s absolutely fucked, his eyes swimming, aflame with red irritation from all the smoke. He feels heavy, stuck to his seat, his bones turned to cement, his muscles unable to stretch. And, despite the near whole joint he’s smoked now, despite the dark clouds blanketing his brain, he still feels something, _something,_ looming there. Lurking. Far far below the surface. Something he’s not supposed to think about… if he tries hard, he thinks he can remember… but it fades.

He musters all of his energy and gathers enough brainpower to tap out a reply.

_i can’t today, sorry. party at mine on friday though. will you come?_

He doesn’t bother waiting for a reply; he knows what the answer will be. Instead, he leans his head back in the chair… closes his eyes… coasts and bends and ducks through time. 

 

Friday, 19:44

Lucas has drank an embarrassing amount of alcohol, and still, no amount could prepare him for the sight before his eyes.

Eliott sits on Lucas’ kitchen counter, knees pulled up and feet crossed under themselves, his shoulders hunched, spine and smile matching in their curls. His skin is the reddest Lucas has ever seen it, giddy and flushed from the inexhaustible cans of beer and glasses of wine he’s downed, and the blue light that filters through the air courtesy of Mika’s strobe light darkens his eyes, and his hair is a bit more styled than usual today, and the long lines of his neck keep enticing Lucas everytime he throws his head back to laugh, and he won’t stop drunkenly singing along to the [terrible music](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLz_viMzcXdaXszgQrpnFU69uQ47WG0nw0) blasting from Manon’s speakers in the corner, and, and, and. So much more, so many more things, but Lucas can’t catalogue it all into his own slurred brain, can’t file it down in his memories, and he’s a bit stressed. He doesn’t want to miss a single thing about him. 

The tiny party swirls on around them in the apartment, the Girl Squad and the Boys the only guests. They’re all dancing together in the living room, the couch and table pushed away to the sides, the blue strobe light streaking their faces, whooping and singing along to the shitty pop music and being entirely too fucking obnoxious – the neighboring apartments might have grounds to complain in a few hours – but Lucas doesn’t care about any of it. He’s busy laughing with Eliott in the kitchen, standing next to him in the corner of the counter. They are both terribly drunk, swimming up to their ears in it – the kind of drunk where the world is slightly tilted on its axis and _everything_ is funny.

They’re both going to be absolutely fucked tomorrow – but honestly, Lucas gaining the knowledge that Eliott is the giggliest, sloppiest, sweetest little drunk is worth any hangover that may come as a consequence. 

“Have you heard about my rapping skills? My infamous Starboy performance?” Eliott says suddenly after they’ve finished with a mutual giggle fit, Lucas teasing the fuck out of him after his five minute nonsensical rant on the best Daft Punk album. Lucas doesn’t believe for a single second that this kid has ever rapped in his life – but he’ll play along. If only to keep the gleam in Eliott’s eyes there a little longer.

“Hmm, I have,” he replies, smirking lightly, “world class, the rumors say.”

Eliott nods seriously, head swaying a little bit as he tries to keep his neck steady, and Lucas can’t help the belly laugh that escapes him. It both sends them, again, and they have to take a minute to get it under control. 

“Give me a beat, then, I’ll show you,” Eliott says, gesturing at Lucas expectantly, and Lucas starts and grins. His eyes shine and he slinks forward, grabbing Eliott’s legs and pulling them down, and he settles himself between them, hands resting on his knees. Eliott blushes, small, but then bursts into volume.

“E-box, give me the beat!” he yells, and Lucas laughs, surprised and startled and hopelessly endeared, but lays down one anyway. He’s not great at beatboxing, so it’s already a disaster, and turned even more so when the only rapping Eliott can accomplish is “mm, yeah yeah, mm, yeah”. They both fall apart into a fit of unshakeable giggles, and Lucas leans forward to press their noses together, their eyes squinting in their glee. 

“World class! World class!” Lucas shouts, teasing relentless, reaching his hands forward to tickle Eliott’s ribs, make him jump and jerk. He’s smiling that wide, wild smile of his, all teeth exposed, and Lucas’ eyes are nearly watering with how hard he’s laughing. Eliott is the funniest fucking person in the world, how did he never notice it before? Lucas has committed a crime. He’ll have to notice it from now on and write down everything he ever says to make up for the loss. Fuck, he’s so drunk. They’re so fucking drunk. 

“You’ve become my witness now,” Eliott manages to squeak out once the laughter has gotten under control, though his chest is still heaving as he tries to catch his breath. “Now I have proof. My rap skills are unmatched.”

“That so?” Lucas says fondly, smiling, screwing his lips together to hold in the wave of adoration that clenches his throat. They stare into each other’s eyes for a few moments, just taking each other in, quiet, before something catches Eliott’s attention and he turns, pricking his head in the direction of the noise.

“Hear that?” he asks, his voice excited, his eyes widened mischievously. Lucas eyes narrow for a split second, brows pulling in confusion. He can’t hear shit besides Eliott’s laugh still ringing in his hears.

“[The song,](https://youtu.be/rST8XpRVwdU)” Eliott says, lips pulling into a terrible, terrible smirk. _Fuck,_ Lucas is worried and suspicious and a little scared and mostly turned on. “ _Moi, je m’appelle Lo-lita_ ,” Eliott sings along with the lyrics that Lucas can hear now, floating into the kitchen from the living room, and Lucas’ mouth drops.

“Are you being serious right now? You know this song?” Lucas is shocked. Appalled. First La La Land, then Daft Punk, and now this? Does Eliott possess a single ounce of culture in his entire body?

“Of course!” Eliott tuts, unable to hide the teasing amusement in his eyes. “Why that face? It’s iconic!”

“Oh my god, Eliott,” Lucas rolls his eyes, shaking his head, slapping his face into his hands. “It’s _trash._ ”

Eliott shakes his head and, after an indifferent snort, starts singing along fully now with the words, voice teetering and clumsy and too loud from his drunkenness, but he’s not doing a bad job – if only it weren’t for this horrendous song. Lucas lifts his head up, but not before pulling his face down his hands dramatically.

“You are beyond lucky you’re cute,” he mutters, back to resting his hands on Eliott’s knees, and Eliott grins, singing to him now, their eyes locked.

“ _C’est pas ma faute, et quand je donne ma langue au chat, je vois les autres, tout prêts à se jeter sur moi,_ “ Eliott sings under his breath, bopping in his head in tiny little waves to the rhythm, and Lucas is torn. He pauses, a breath stuck in his throat, as he deliberates between tearing him to shreds with mockery, and unzipping his pants right this second to suck his dick. When Eliott’s eyes darken at Lucas’ dropped mouth, he thinks that, with every passing moment, he’s heading full speed towards the latter. 

“See? It’s a good song,” Eliott whispers, eyebrows raised, licking his lips, and he knows what he’s fucking doing. He knows how much Lucas… Lucas swallows and slides his hands up from Eliott’s knees to his thighs and, in his grip, guides Eliott’s legs to wrap around his waist, pulling his hips closer to him. Eliott squeaks a little with the movement, but it upturns into the tiniest little moan at the end. Got him. He’s fooling nobody.

Lucas leans forward to kiss him, quick and sharp, pulling back as quick as it came. Eliott’s hands, his slow and careful hands, still so deliberate even with all the alcohol he’s swilled, snake up to Lucas’ neck, twisting the back strands of his hair between his fingers. He pulls, ever so slightly, and Lucas starts, his own hands stuttering where they rest against his waist.

“You little shit,” Lucas breathes, going in for another kiss, but Eliott turns his mouth away at the last second, continuing his low, whispering, provoking singing instead. 

“ _C’est pas ma faute à moi, si j’entends tout autour de moi, hello helli t’es Ah, moi Lo-lita_ ,“ his voice going up at the end along with the music, and Lucas is stunned. Stunned. “Lo-li-ta,” Eliott finishes with a smile, tongue pressing behind his teeth to stress every syllable, and Lucas moans. He moans. He doesn’t give a shit. He’s completely drunk and the hottest boy maybe ever to exist has his legs wrapped around him and he feels like he’s dangerously close to coming in his fucking pants. There are no more shits to give.

“Fuck,” Lucas curses, unable to find anything more succinct. Eliott needs to wipe that pleased fucking smirk off his face before Lucas – he leans forward instead of finishing his thought, connecting their lips, squeezing Eliott’s thighs, pulling him closer, in, in, taking more, drinking his air. Swallowing his breaths.

Does a minute pass? Ten? Hours and hours worth? Lucas couldn’t say – but one moment he’s got Eliott’s tongue in his mouth, the next, he hears a loud, intrusive “mec!” in his ear and he jerks around to face the sudden noise, scared out of his skin.

He turns around to see Arthur standing in the kitchen, staring at them with an unbearable amount of knowing, cocky, _annoying_ satisfaction. “Evening,” he greets as Lucas and Eliott freeze, in shock, their mouths still hanging open, Eliott’s legs still wrapped around Lucas’ hips in a vice grip. 

Lucas is going to kill.

“How’s it hanging? Not upwards, I hope,” Arthur bites, wagging his eyebrows, and Lucas actually breaks away from Eliott to shove him away.

“ _Please_ fuck off,” he says, his voice dangerously close to a whine. Why does he have friends why does he have friends why does he have friends. He’s going to walk through the rest of his life alone because it’s honestly not worth the effort.

Arthur raises his hands in surrender, shrugging, Lucas’ frustration only adding to his self-satisfaction. Annoying fuck. “Alright, alright, I’ll go. I just came to grab a drink and pass on a message from Mika that he’d appreciate if you didn’t fuck on the kitchen counter. Where you make food. And also, that he’s jealous.”

Lucas snaps his head to the living room, where he can still see all his friends dancing, but Mika keeping his eyes on the scene, observing from afar. He gives a little wave when Lucas meets his eyes, and Lucas most definitely is cutting out _many_ people from his life tonight. 

“Nice to see you again, Eliott,” Arthur says before leaving, holding his hand out for Eliott to shake, and the blush that rises up Eliott’s neck and rushes to his cheeks is unparalleled. He returns it shakily, unable to meet Arthur’s bug eyes, which Arthur thinks is funny, somehow. Lucas is not a violent person, usually, by any means – but if there was the chance for Arthur to get the shit beat of him, it would be now.

“Salut,” Arthur says in parting, and Eliott is still for a long while, unable to close his stunned, mortified mouth. But then something turns in him, and the blush fades into something softer, more gleeful and self aware, more humbled. “Fuck,” he whispers once Arthur’s gone for good, all of his embarrassment, in his drunkenness, turning into a string of giggles. “Fuck.”

Lucas turns to him again, scanning his eyes up and down his face, and at Lucas’ attention, Eliott bursts into hysterical fucking laughter. It pops into Lucas’ ears, loud and bright and probably obnoxious – not that Lucas would notice, he likes it too much. Goddamn giggliest drunk… Lucas feels his anger slowly dissipate, fade, and before long he’s laughing along with Eliott too. 

“Maybe we should join them. Enter society,” Eliott suggests, taking his previous call out in stride, but Lucas pulls a face, groaning in mock devastation.

“Give me one good reason,” he says with a scowl, expectant for an answer, but Eliott only laughs and smiles. Lucas breaks into a reserved sigh, yielding to defeat. Eliott is probably right. But only probably. Lucas is stubborn and he’ll keep wanting, for the rest of the night, to only spend it with Eliott. But he’ll compromise. For now.

“After me, then,” Lucas says, offering his hand for Eliott to take. Eliott smiles, slipping their fingers together, and he jumps off the counter, letting Lucas take him away. Eliott doesn’t let go of his hand, not as Lucas leads him into the living room, not as all of his friends cheer and laugh and begin their endless teasing and whooping – look who finally deciding to show up! and thanks for the free show! – not as Lucas flips them all off with his free hand and wishes them all a curse. Not as they begin dancing together, in the center of the tiny crowd, surrounded by his friends, jumping manically to Manon’s dreadful playlist still going strong from the speakers in the corner. Now that the drunkenness had settled into Lucas like a shadow, a second skin, he thinks he can begin to appreciate them all.

Poker Face is playing, that’s how terrible the selection is, and it speaks to Lucas’ absolutely fucked state that he’s able to enjoy it. Eliott is pulling the dorkiest fucking faces as they both jump to the music, his wild limbs not obeying any of his movements, swinging around clumsily of their own accord. Lucas dances _just_ as dorkily to match, meeting all his movements, sliding around together and laughing in each other’s ears and spinning around and around. They bump into the others more than a few times, but everyone is drunk and happy and Lucas hasn’t felt this free in a long time. A long time. _Can’t read my, can’t read my, no you can’t read my poker face_ Eliott sings, off key and cracking, and Lucas' cheeks are going to burst with how hard and unyielding his smile is.

Eliott smiles just as brightly in return, pulling him closer and they dance and sing without any finesse or self awareness or shame, and they end the night the same way they began it: in hysterical, untamed laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ficpost](http://summerhyuck.tumblr.com/post/183368473276/you-cut-through-all-the-noise-by-27tattoos-ao3) here!
> 
> tumblr: summerhyuck
> 
> thank you all so so much for all of the reads and the lovely comments!! :)


	9. ix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im alive! whew!
> 
> i just want to say a couple things:
> 
> First off, I'm very sorry that it's been so long oof. The end of S3 was very emotional and a Lot to handle, and other things have been happening, and it just kind of fell off my radar for a bit and i didn't have the mind to write. So I'm sorry for that. Hopefully now that this hurdle has been pushed through i can get back to my regular updates, but with school finals coming up we'll have to see.
> 
> It's also been aksjflsd a struggle to write this chapter and I'm still not very pleased with how it turned out but I've been working on it for so long that I just want to,, stop looking at it, I'm sick of it. Hopefully im just in my own head and its not as bad as i think it is, but if not, I'm sorry for that too fkskskd
> 
> And third.. I might as well use this platform that I've been given to share the message to ask yall to go as hard for Imane's season as we did for Lucas' you cowards. uwu. thank you.
> 
> thanks:  
> clea and louna for park suggestions 🤧  
> my emotional support goblins 🤠  
> and anushka! happy birthday, no escaping it now, here is your present 😊  
> and, to everyone, for your patience and nice words 💞

Monday, 00:43

Lucas closes his eyes but he can’t fall asleep. Maybe it’s because of the little bit of weed he smoked as he finished his homework, just to help the time pass. Or maybe it’s because his fingers still twitch with muscle memory of melody after melody during Mika’s lessons yesterday – they spent nearly three hours playing together, and, dare he say it, Mika is… almost _good,_ now. Or maybe it’s because his father texted him this evening to tell him _She’s gone to every one. I’m going to stop keeping tabs now._ and he’d quietly fumed, reading it continuously, double checking again and again that each word was a word his father had chosen to type.

But, in all likelihood, if Lucas can admit – he can’t sleep because he replays this weekend over and over in his mind, reliving it, seeing it run like a movie behind his eyes rather than darkness. So many images and thoughts and memories of Eliott, crowding forward:

Dancing together by themselves as the party wound down around them, his friends slowly leaving one by one, him too wrapped up in making Eliott laugh to notice. They cycled through three repeats of Manon’s playlist, swaying and jumping and acting like fucking fools together, before Mika had come in and begged them to let it die, he couldn’t handle hearing another round of _Timber_ and Aya Nakamura, for the love of God. 

Leading Eliott to his bedroom, both of them uneasy on their feet from drunkenness and exhaustion from dancing and giggly swaying and building arousal; Lucas, over the course of the night, had had to watch Eliott sing Lolita _four_ times and he was not about to let it slide, never in a million fucking years. Bringing him to his bed and fucking him, winding hands in his hair, not once taking his eyes off the sweet pink blush permanently coloring in his cheeks. It had been clumsy and utterly without finesse and probably terrible, to be honest, with how drunk they were, but did it matter? Did any of it matter as long as Lucas got to hear Eliott whisper his name in his ear? Hear what his breath sounds like when he comes? As long as he can keep those things, the hit to his ego concerning his less than stellar performance is a trade-off he’d make any day.

And then of course they’d woken up in the morning with hangovers from hell – Lucas’ mouth had never been so dry in his fucking life. It had taken three tons of willpower to screw up the effort to drag themselves out of Lucas’ bed, make some hangover tea, both downing it with grimaces only to return back to bed minutes later, simply lying next to each other as they slept their headaches away. Lucas was reminded, somehow, of their hours spent in the meadow as they both blinked awake, and stared at each other only, still too sleepy to form any words, mouths still too dry to try any attempt at kissing. Lucas can now, if asked, name the four different colors that make up Eliott’s eyes. If asked.

Little moments flash through Lucas’ brain now, of the rest of the weekend – sitting down at the table with Manon and Mika and Eliott to eat dinner. Eliott sitting on Lucas’ bed, head on his pillow and scrolling absentmindedly through his phone, as Lucas finished homework at his desk. Taking a shower with him, and, in final payback for the shit he pulled in the courtyard that Wednesday with his teasing texts, made him get himself off with his own hands only, refusing to touch him, only watching… _fuck,_ he skips over that one quickly, as he’s too tired to be horny right now. 

Eliott sitting in on Mika’s piano lessons, listening to Lucas give his patient instructions and dole out his little encouragements, watch him guide Mika’s fingers on the keys if he kept getting a chord wrong. Driving Eliott home, listening to more of his music in the car, and taking a few detours around Paris just to hear one more song, and one more, and one more. 

All of it, every single bit of it, keeps playing behind Lucas’ tired eyes on a loop. He’s caught between being asleep and being awake, and it’s possible he might be dreaming some of it, as it goes through his head again… but he doesn’t think so. They seem rooted in his brain, embedded, as if, when Lucas experienced them, he’d made a conscious decision to keep them. Lay them down. Remember them.

Maybe the fact that it’s so picture clear is because it’s been helped along by the weed he smoked from earlier… but something nags at Lucas’ brain when he thinks that. _Excuse. An excuse._ He shakes his head, ridding himself of it, not wanting any other thoughts to creep forward other than memories, and memories only. His most recent ones – he wants to enjoy them for as long as he can before they start to lose their sharpness.

He yawns, eyes still closed. He’s afraid that if he opens them, his little movie will shatter. So he keeps them shut, and he plays the movie again over… and over… and over…

 

Monday, 09:51

It’s been, so far, a surprisingly good day. Lucas has managed to engage himself in his classes, complete all his work in the duration, instead of having to roll his eyes at the thought of bringing it home later. Nobody bugs him, much, and he even quips a few jokes that get rising giggles from each class. Natural charm, good timing. It comes to him so easily, he can feel it, even down to his fingers. He thinks back to the meadow, for a flash of a second, and his brain rewinds an old pathway of thought, a newfound resolution he committed to himself, that day… _that he’s in control of his own fucking life._

He feels like he is, again, and it fucking feels good. So good.

Which is why, when he meets up with the Boys during the short break in the morning, his mood doesn’t dip at all, even when they wag their brows at him, ribbing him, rising him, trying to get a snap back.

“So you and Eliott huh,” Basile starts stupidly, trying and failing to exaggerate in a tease. Normally Lucas would roll his eyes at him, but he simpers, instead, shoving Basile away lightly.

“None of your business,” he says with a sweet smile, flashing his teeth, and it gets dropped after that. From Basile, at least: Arthur and Yann keep eyeing him, pressing their lips to hide self-satisfied smiles, but whatever. It _isn’t_ their business. None of whoever Lucas fucks is ever anybody’s business. So he’ll ignore them and let them simmer if they want; it’s between Lucas and Eliott.

He decides he’ll text him, just before the break ends and he and the Boys part ways to head to their next classes. He hovers over the keys, sucking in his lip, trying to form the perfect words, to draw him in, pull him in. Get him.

_To: Eliott  
That thing you did in the shower yesterday. Damn._

He doesn’t get a reply until he’s sitting in his desk for the next class, and he pulls out his phone again, gripping it in two hands.

_From: Eliott  
What about it?_

Little shit. Lucas shakes his head, breathing out a laugh as he types his answer.

_To: Eliott  
I’ve got math. Can’t stop thinking about it. Regret not putting my hands on you._

Eliott’s reply is instant, and Lucas’ grip on his phone tightens, a sting prickling up his spine.

_Meet me after school and we can fix that._

Margot, in the desk beside Lucas, notices his preening smile, his teeth pressed into his lip, and she catches his attention – his head snaps up.

“Good weekend, Lucas?” she asks brightly, cheeks wide and eyes kind, and Lucas swallows.

“Great one,” he manages to get out with a smile, though he’s losing it a bit in his head. He thinks back to Basile’s dig this morning, his stupid smile… _You and Eliott, huh?_ He reflects over the weekend, again, getting piss fucking drunk, losing control of his thoughts and limbs and ability to sniff his nose at shitty music. Does he care? Does he care that he’s losing himself, a bit?

He quickly shoots off his reply to Eliott - _meet me at the benz._ \- before class starts, and he decides to put it off for now. Put it off, put it off. He’s had a good streak of actually paying attention in his classes today, and he won’t break it now. 

He’ll focus on Math and then English and then Biology and he’ll put it all off. His math teacher begins her lecture, and he listens carefully, holding his hands a little too still to create pencil lines that are a little too straight as he copies the problems from the board.

 

Monday, 4:28

Students clamor around, talking talking talking about the day and their classes and the relief of another Monday finished, getting into their cars or beginning the walks to bus stops, and it all goes into one ear and out the other with Lucas. Noise in the background. He stands by the driver’s door of his Benz, leaning forward, eyes soft and round and sunny as he watches Eliott across him at the passenger door.

He’s beautiful today. Hair fluffed across his head, eyes bright, cheeks as pink as always. He’s wearing a new, never before seen jacket, a black one with white stripes down the sleeves - it’s wide around his neck, framing his little body in a drape. Lucas’ eyes linger along him, in places he doesn’t usually notice. His ears that stick out, round, pushed forward. His nose, with the bump on the bridge. The peaks of his forehead, the tiny flyaway hairs that stick out at the top of his head… So many parts, little parts, that Lucas scans, noting them, acknowledging existence. 

Eliott smiles, giggly, a second sun. “Got any plans for today?”

Lucas is pulled out of his haze, almost at the edge of a dream, and snaps back into it. “We’ll find out, won’t we?” he says with a winning smile, before opening the car door and entering, and seeing Eliott do the same from inside.

Lucas starts the car and pulls out, navigating his way around the lot to the gate, and Eliott speaks with a hint of a knowing taunt. “As much as I love showing off my superior music taste, I think it’s your turn.”

Lucas turns his body only slightly, keeping his eyes on the road, affronted. “Say that again?”

“It is your turn for the music Lucas Lallemant,” Eliott says, clear and smirking, and Lucas takes it as a challenge. He pulls out his phone, quickly switching gaze between it and the road, and just turns on the last thing he listened to so he can put it away. A Fleetwood Mac album. Soft and stirring, filling ears. They both gently bump their heads to it as Lucas pulls away from school and into the traffic of Paris.

He doesn’t quite know what he’d like to do today. He just knows he wants to spend time with him, hear his giggles and watch his mouth as he forms words, and of course, fulfill that promise they’d agreed upon earlier… of course. But right now he just drives on, into the sun, meandering around streets and corners, listening to Eliott sing softly along with bits and pieces of the music. [_I wanna be with you everywhere._](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fIoxpiS01gE)

Time might slip away from Lucas, a little bit, as the album runs through and he just _drives,_ into nowhere, following nothing. Eliott begins conversations that resolve into fits of giggles, both of them joking back and forth, passing pointless, stupid drivel between them; tease after tease, rib after rib, laugh after laugh.

Eventually, Lucas’ thoughts begin to wander helplessly, to imagining their agreement, to pushing off Eliott’s jacket… he pulls off of the road suddenly, and parks on the curb, and turns to face him, and bites his lip, and says it.

“Come here. Come climb into my lap.”

Eliott looks taken aback at the sudden stop, still getting over his cackling at a joke Lucas had cracked. He stares back, red-faced, eyes not yet dawned with realization. “Huh?”

“The windows are black, nobody can see, I promise,” Lucas says smoothly, reaching forward to paw at Eliott’s arm, tugging on his jacket. “Come here.”

Eliott blushes, eyes shying away, but he lifts himself from the seat, bumbling over to him. It takes a lot of situating and resituating– Eliott is just, so much _limb_ , and Lucas had to push his seat backwards so his back wouldn’t dig into the steering wheel, and Eliott might have accidentally kneed him in the stomach… but he’d gotten over it, and they settled into each other, comfortable now. Eliott sits squarely in Lucas’ lap, his knees draped over either side of his legs, one pair of hands resting on the other’s hips, and the other pair of hands resting on the other’s chest. Looking back, Lucas can’t quite remember.

“Hello,” Lucas says, glancing over his face once, lips quirking at the sight.

“Hello,” Eliott echoes, eyes squinting as he smiles, and Lucas tips his head forward to kiss him.

They do nothing more than kiss for a long while, an equal back and forth, each always meeting in the middle to join again. Lucas hands sneak under Eliott’s jacket and he slides them up and down his back, side to side along his waist, across the span. He pulls him in. Eliott’s sweet little whines are not to be heard, now, replaced by a humming between them, breaths that are only the slightest bit shaky as they pull apart, noises of contentment. 

Eventually Lucas wraps his fingers around the sides of Eliott’s jacket and pushes it down, away, trying to get it off and giving Eliott the hint. They break away momentarily for Eliott to shrug it off and throw it in the backseat, forgotten, before coming back again. Now Lucas can bring his touch to the bare skin of Eliott’s arms, slowly run it back and forth, even as they shift around from Eliott touching Lucas himself. He lowers, occasionally, to rest his hands on Lucas’ stomach or squeeze at his waist, but he always comes back to Lucas’ neck, his fingers curled soft and warm against his skin.

Lucas feels like he’s fifty feet underwater – a place with no weight, where everything is still. Safe. He’s grounded by Eliott’s weight on his legs, by Eliott’s fingers in his hair, by feeling, under his hands, Eliott’s skin and muscle and bones. Something about this feels… it feels, it feels... Lucas can’t say, can’t name, can’t bring it to words. He doesn’t think he wants to, either. He puts it off, puts it off, puts it off, and just breathes and holds and touches.

Time passes. It’s hard to say how much – Lucas, honest to god, feels like it might have been a lifetime. They pull apart eventually, out of a dream, eyes blinking open slowly. Staring. Adjusting themselves back to the real world after having been gone for so long.

“Hello,” Eliott says again, breathing out a warm little laugh, and Lucas, his eyes still droopy, breaks into a grin.

“Hello,” he returns. Eliott drops his forehead against Lucas’ and they both laugh together. It takes another heap of time to unwind their hands from each other’s shirts and for Eliott to maneuver himself off Lucas’ lap, dropping with a sigh in the passenger seat.

“Want to go to nowhere?” Lucas asks to break the silence, voice picking up in excitement at the end.

“And where’s that, exactly?” he questions, and he’s so fucking warm, beaming, glowing, a ray, it pours out of his skin, coming off in waves, and Lucas can’t look away. He shrugs. 

“Let’s find out,” he answers.

***

Nowhere turns out to be everywhere. They go everywhere. They go to a grocery store, and traipse down the aisles, pulling things off the shelves at random to put in their cart, before retracing their steps all the way through to put everything back. The only thing Lucas buys is a pack of gum so they don’t look like _too_ much of assholes, coming in to a store and leaving empty handed.

Lucas parks suddenly on the side of the road and they get out to walk a few blocks around, popping into a few stores, for books and shoes and cell phone plans, and Lucas approaches the cashier in each one to charm them for a few minutes while Eliott lingers in the back, trying – and most definitely failing – to hide his shaking laughter.

They return to the car and Lucas drives farther, to Le Jardin des Tuileries, and they stroll down the neat little paths, stop at the fields of burgeoning spring grass to bend down and feel the roughness under their fingers, and act like total fools together around one of the statues for a while, each taking pictures of the other pulling stupid faces. 

It’s getting late and everything is seared a warm orange from the setting sun, everything glows – finally, the world able to keep up with Eliott’s beauty. They approach the biggest fountain in the park, the centerpiece, and they stroll around; Lucas taking one direction and Eliott taking the other. Their pace matches as they walk around, watching each other from across the water, smiling as they get closer and closer… they cross each other, and Eliott smirks as he keeps on walking, back around, starting the routine over again.

Lucas is caught in a dance, a game, as they circle around it, over and over, Eliott eventually becoming bold enough to stroke quick fingers over Lucas’ arms or back every time they pass. The water ripples between them, the fountain spilling over itself and cycling through, again and again, swallowing up only to spit back out in the next instant. Never running out.

The dim evening settles like a blanket, orange turning purple, and they leave and find a new place. And then a new place. And then a new one. Lucas’ brain is overwhelmed, trying to coincide all these different versions of Eliott, trying to find room for him to exist among all these places he used to come to as a child. His memories of them all have been reworked now – remade to reflect the fact that Eliott is a part of the world. It’s a tragedy that he’s lived so long without knowing it. 

It’s nearly midnight by the time Lucas starts the drive to take Eliott home, the route coming to mind with ease now. Eliott giggles nervously as he explains his plan for how he’s going to sneak in without having to encounter his parents, and Lucas laughs along, adding ideas, ridiculous ones, like climbing up the building Spiderman-style to get to his window, or setting off the fire alarm in the building to distract everyone so he can slip in quietly, and Eliott howls at all of them, whines that he’s not taking him seriously, and they laugh and laugh and laugh. Lucas hasn’t stopped laughing since he got drunk with him Friday night and he thinks it’s stitched something back together, inside him, that he didn’t know had frayed.

When Lucas pulls up to his house, Eliott asks for a kiss for good luck before he leaves, and Lucas obliges, of course. Obliges in full – ten good luck kisses are better than one. Eliott has to shriek and shove him off playfully to get him to stop.

They’re at a crossroads when Eliott gets out and leans his head down, meeting Lucas’ eyes while he stands with the door open, words caught in his throat. The force of the day, the weight, hits Lucas in full and he very suddenly doesn’t want a word to be spoken about it. He doesn’t want any thanks or appreciation to pass between them; he wants this day to become memory only, untouched and untainted. Controlled.

So he quickly says, “don’t mention it,” graceful and smooth, ending in a smile. And Eliott nods, returning his smile, a flicker in his eyes, before he shuts the car door and leaves, returned to his home. And Lucas watches on, long after Eliott has gone in and shut the door, before he starts the car and drives away.

 

Tuesday, 07:05

He wakes up to his alarm and two texts. His eyes are bleary as he stares at the screen, trying to make sense of the words. 

_From: Eliott_  
<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VPsyynjHpbY>  
since you missed out on more of my music last night :) 

He wants to smile, already thinking of a reply, but a text from his mother waits for him and he has to answer her. He can’t believe he hasn’t spoken to her in this fucking long… a sharp thread of guilt claws around his throat, tightening.

_From: Mama  
Salut mon chou. I hope you’re doing well in school. I miss you though, and I want to see you soon. Kisses_

He types a frantic reply, eager to get the words out.

_Of course, I’ll see you as soon as I can, today?_

A peal of laughter from outside his door snaps his attention up, and he narrows his eyes, suspicious. He quickly pulls on the nearest clothes, boxers and an old white t-shirt, and leaves to investigate.

It comes from the kitchen, from Mika clattering around at the stove as he makes himself breakfast, and Manon, not yet ready for the day, sitting across from Imane at the table. She greets him as he walks in, making a quick quip at his lack of pants, and he curls his lip at her to goud her back. 

“Is my home an official meet-up place, now?” Lucas asks as he wanders towards the stove, hoping he can take a bit of whatever Mika’s making, but he wrinkles his nose when he sees it - _is that even food?_ So he nabs a plain piece of bread instead, chewing on it slowly as he listens to Manon’s annoyed reply.

“So guest privileges extend to you but not to me, I see,” she says haughtily, sniffing, and Imane snorts beside her. 

“Yeah, but you’re not fucking Imane, are you?” Lucas says with a crude smile, and Imane’s eyes narrow. She lifts her chin.

“It’s not any more fair for you to speak about me like that than it is for Eliott,” she says coolly, and Lucas rolls his eyes, his face dropping. Mika bursts into sharp laughter next to him, and Lucas shoves him lightly, the fucker.

“Kidding, kidding, kidding,” Lucas mutters, voice high, striding to the table and dropping into a chair. Imane’s gaze doesn’t leave him, and he shrugs, neck prickling, on the defense - but he’ll meet the challenge. He’s got nothing to hide. “What?”

“We all saw how you acted with him on Friday,” Imane says, even and composed, a single brow raised in a high arch. “And I know your reputation. I just hope you’re planning on treating him well. That’s all.”

Lucas scoffs. The kitchen has gone silent, Manon and Mika listening carefully too, waiting for explanations, surely, of the behavior Lucas has exhibited over the past weeks… it all runs through his head quickly, a flash behind his eyes, and his jaw twists. “Not that it’s anyone’s business, but it’s not like that. _I’m_ never like that. He’s fun to be around and it’s good. That’s all it is.”

The silence has turned sour, curious ears now turned off, mouths pressing into hard lines. Manon raises her mug to take a small sip of tea, and Lucas wants to roll his eyes into the back of his head.

“I’m getting ready for school, now,” he says to break it, throwing it out carelessly. “If anybody wants to tell me what clothes I should wear today, I’m right down the hall.”

“Don’t wear that hideous pink shirt of yours,” Mika chirps, and it eases the tension, a little bit, to hear another’s voice, but Lucas flicks a finger at him anyway. He goes into his room and shakes himself, physically, to shrug it all off, put a stopper in all of it. None of it will affect him. Everything is forced into little boxes inside his head – this belongs there, this belongs there, this belongs there. His friends and his fucks? They don’t belong. They’re on opposite sides of the room, in fact.

He pulls out his phone when he feels a buzz, and it’s another text from his mother. 

_I’ve got some plans today mon chou, but tomorrow? Maybe you could pick me up from the counselor and we could go to lunch? Kisses._

He sends a double thumbs up in reply, breathing a sigh of relief - _some_ sort of goodness to start off the day. He’ll see her soon, see her face, see how much better she’s doing, and something will ease inside him. He’ll be able to sleep a bit better a night, less tossing and turning from an ache in his ribs that won’t go away.

He leaves their conversation and hovers over Eliott’s message for a second, reading the words again, before exiting the app and locking his screen. He gets ready for school.

 

Wednesday, 17:52

What is it about the smell of _offices._ Lucas sits in a stiff chair, ankles crossed, fingers gripping his phone to stop from fidgeting, and he is forcing himself to breathe out of his mouth so his nose isn’t assaulted with _prim_ and _orderly_ and _clean._ He thinks darkly, for a second, that maybe this is why his mother has such an easier time coming here now… but it flits it away, pushed by guilt. He’s worked very hard on forgiving his mother, but sometimes, he feels like the wound might never close fully – always a few threads of skin that won’t ever quite fuse together.

He’s sitting in the waiting room of the counselor’s office, listening to the white noise machine that covers up their discussion just a few feet away. A single door separates Lucas from his mother and her most private, personal thoughts, thoughts she can only share with someone she’s paying. It frightens him if he thinks about it too hard.

He unlocks his phone to distract, to rid, but ends up going to Eliott’s messages on an impulse, reading them all again for the fifth time since he’s been waiting.

_btw, your good luck kisses worked! you turned me into the stealth master, my parents had no clue 😜_

_another song for you.<https://youtu.be/ncBDvEKYDEA>_

_no replies won’t stop me. youre going to listen to my music 😎<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QOngRDVtEQI>_

And then today, a message sent just after school, one that squeezed Lucas’ heart, a bit.

_people have bored me today. nobody else can make me laugh. want to hang out today?_

To which Lucas had replied, finally, a bit of guilt untensing his fingers as he hit send./p>

_can’t today, sorry. with my mother._

And Eliott’s final message, the words just _sitting there,_ unanswered, forlorn. 

_don’t be sorry! let me know how it goes okay?_

He could easily send off a thumbs up or a smile or a thank you or _anything,_ anything, but nothing seems enough. So he doesn’t answer. Better to say nothing than let anything come pouring out unfettered. Even when he thinks back to that night in the meadow, nearly two weeks ago now…his jaw twists when he remembers how readily the words came up, to speak to Eliott about his mother, and looking back, he wants to stuff it all back in his mouth and swallow it. Say it more smoothly, evenly, each word chosen with care, rather than throwing up in Eliott’s lap and hoping he won’t turn away in disgust. _God._

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._ He needs to be more careful, more careful. If he controls his life… his words have to come with it. How could he ever forget this basic fucking concept?

The door in front of him swings open, suddenly, and Lucas is snapped out of his thoughts, eyes clearing of their filminess. He stands up from the chair to greet them – he can hear low chattering before his mother walks out of the room, and she breaks into a wide, gleaming smile when she lays eyes on him.

“Oh, mon chou, I missed you!” she cries joyously, tumbling forward into his arms and wrapping tightly around him. He smiles into her neck, mumbles a small “I missed you too,” and allows himself to relax into her embrace. Soften. They break apart for a few moments for his mother to turn around and introduce him brightly to the counselor, a mid-thirties woman with lightly graying hair and kind owl eyes.

“This is my son, Lucas,” his mother says, beaming, keeping an arm around his shoulder. The counselor tips her head at him, smiling herself, though it’s small and contained.

“Nice to meet you,” she says quietly. She speaks with his mother for a few moments, making pleasantries and plans for the next session, but then Lucas is surprised when her words direct towards him. “I’d like to speak with you for a few minutes, if you don’t mind,” she addresses him, eyes peering, deep, and Lucas starts, taken aback.

“Me?” He wrinkles his nose in confusion, the corners of his mouth turning down. She nods seriously, and she doesn’t look as kind anymore. Not in Lucas’ eyes. “Alright,” he says slowly, turning to his mother, who looks just as baffled as he feels.

“I’ll wait for you outside, mon chou,” she says, her hand rubbing into his back once, before she uncurls her arm from his shoulder and walks out, the door of the office snicking shut behind her.

He bites his lip where he stands, feelings the urge to curl his feet inwards, cross his arms over his stomach, but he doesn’t. He clenches his fists against his legs and he stands straight; there’s no reason to be intimidated. And he won’t be. 

“How is she doing?” he asks casually, looking the woman up and down – he won’t turn away. He doesn’t know what she’s getting at, but he won’t turn away. He keeps his back straight and tall.

“Your mother is doing great,” she says, though it sounds offhand, almost dismissive. “There’s not progress every day, sometimes she takes a step back. But she’s trying her absolute best, I know, and that’s all that can be done.”

Lucas nods slowly, pressing his lips together in acceptance. He’s glad to hear it, very glad, to hear this news: his mother and “trying” rarely go together. But he’s pleased, and proud, and resolves to give her the tightest hug he can manage once he’s done here. Which should be soon. 

“But I wanted to talk to you, Lucas,” the counselor continues, and her voice has softened… become more timid and fragile, like she knows she’s treading precarious grounds. A bad feeling settles in Lucas’ gut immediately. He has the vaguest inkling, a prickling, that he knows where this is going, and he doesn’t fucking want it.

“I just wanted to let you know that you’re free to come see me anytime. For anything.”

The feeling spirals, twists and curls and digs its claws in him, and something feels caught in his throat – he nearly chokes on it. “What?” he splutters, voice high, his tongue thick in his mouth.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” she says, eyeing him firmly, before she nods once and retreats back into her office, wishing him a good weekend before he goes. Lucas stands frozen as she disappears, his eyes staring at the door but he’s without sight - he’s caught completely in his own brain. The lurking, the creeping fucking mass that lies dormant in the back of his head, has been surfaced for air. He closes his eyes, tries to push it down frantically, but still, he can feel it rising – just like the bile in his throat.

“Fuck,” he whispers, cries, pushing the heels of his hands to his eyes and gripping his skull. The door, the door, the stupid fucking doors – the door of Eliott’s house, the door in the counselor’s office, the door of his childhood bedroom. Something terrible is straining at the dam, his precious fucking dam, that he’s built stone by stone with merciless diligence and care and precision, for years and _years_ , not letting a single leak slip through. He’s reworked himself into steel and lead bones and forced every single fucking thing into boxes, where this goes here and that goes there, and nothing can ever be let out if he doesn’t want it to. _Never._

He clenches his jaw so hard he’s worries for a second about breaking his own teeth. Fuck her. Fuck all of it, fuck it fuck it fuck it. He’s worked too hard on all of it, worked too hard to strangle and suffocate and lock it all away, that he won’t let some stupid fucking therapist’s prying, offhand words to break it. He won’t, he absolutely refuses to let it. He’ll fucking drown himself before he lets it break.

Slowly, he pulls his head out of his hands. His eyes blink, adjusting to the daylight again, pulled out of the deepness and blackness of water. He breathes once, forceful, before turning around and smoothing it all out, all of his features, his smile and his eyes and his cheeks, to go and greet his mother. He can feel it all dissipate when he walks through the door, like a switch turned on, and his smile is real when he lays eyes on her, waiting for him by his car.

“What did she want?” she asks, curious but not prying, humming with the excitement of spending the rest of the day with him.

“Nothing,” Lucas says sunnily, ending it. Cutting it off. “Ready to go?”

She nods, grin soft and sweet, and Lucas opens the car door for her before going around and getting in himself. The rest of the day, he laughs with her and stirs the conversations and asks her questions and speaks casually about what he’s doing in school, and when he visits home, he pets Ouba for an hour straight, at _least_ , and plays a game with his mother, and doesn’t comment on the fact that, for the first time in years, none of the house smells like bleach. He does all of that and he keeps everything else firmly, resolutely locked away in the dark. It won’t come up again. He won’t let it.

 

Thursday, 11:04

_Basile: im bringing chloe to lunch today_ 😍

_Arthur: …but why_

_Basile: because if I want her to be my gf I need to know how she acts with my crew first_

_Lucas: you have a crew? when can we be introduced?_

_Arthur: oooooooof_

_Basile:_ 😒😒 

_Yann: i support you baz_

_then its lucas’ turn next_

_Lucas: pardon?_

_Yann: we’d all like to be introduced to eliott in the daylight instead of under strobe lights at a party_

_Arthur: i bet he looks even better in the daylight_

_Basile: arthur what the fuck?_

_Arthur:_ 🤷♂️ 

_Lucas: no chance._

_Basile: but no fair! out of all of you im the one who hasn’t even talked to him yet!_

_Lucas: I’d like to keep it that way_

_Arthur: why cant we meet him though?_

_Yann:_ 🙄🤔 

_Arthur: ghost_

_Arthur: lets kick him out_

_Basile: agree_

_Arthur: with lucas’ spot free maybe now you can finally join the crew baz_

_Basile: oh fuck you_

_Yann: lmao_

 

Thursday, 12:09

Lucas isn’t a very patient or friendly person. Other people annoy him. Bore him. He likes his friends, and he can turn on the charm for a game or a laugh; but most of the time, he couldn’t be fucked to talk to most anybody on Earth. It’s a bother he can’t bring himself to worry about.

And as he meets Chloe, now, he’s reminded why he follows this philosophy.

This girl _never_ stops talking. Lucas could swear she’s said two hundred words in one minute, and it looks like it’ll be another two hundred for the next. He tunes her out almost immediately, only sparing enough attention to mutter an insincere “nice to meet you”, and instead scans the lunchroom for a familiar face, even though he knows he’ll be disappointed. Eliott always eats lunch outside.

He still hasn’t answered his texts from yesterday, despite the fact that he’s listened to each song Eliott has sent him, each shitty-mellow-electronica one. He imagines this is the kind of stuff Eliott listens to as he gets ready in the morning, or walks to bus stops, or does his homework – a bubbly and upbeat and embarrassingly genuine soundtrack to narrate his life. It fits. 

He’ll see him soon and they can talk in person, and some things can be laid to rest. Lucas is always better face to face, always better with his words when his body can fill the lines in between. He’ll make him laugh and laugh in return and erase everything from this stupid fucking week, erase all of his friends fucking with his head and making him think it’s deeper than it is. He considers, in a daydream, spending his life alone, free from other’s thoughts and memories – and nobody can control him then. It would all belong to him.

He thinks blissfully of visiting the meadow soon to be alone, to smoke and lie in flowers and grass without a single human voice in his ear, and he’s pulled himself out so far from his friends around him that it takes four repeats of his name, with increasing volume, to get his attention back. He startles, like he was half asleep and just had a dream about falling. “Lucas, you idiot,” Yann mutters, shoving his arm, “she asked you a question.”

“Hmm?” he says, raising his head, irked, settling his eyes on Basile and Chloe across the table from him. Chloe has her lips pressed together, politely biting back her buzzing eagerness, and Basile’s pleading is clear through his eyes as he stares at Lucas. _Please be nice. Please be nice._

Lucas glances at him and narrows his eyes once, quickly, only a flash of movement, before he breaks into a smile, his jaw tensed. He can fake it. But he’ll take pleasure in knowing that it’s fake.

“I’m sorry, how rude of me. Ask it again?”

Chloe blushes and bites her lip, and Lucas has to freeze up his entire face in a strained smile to prevent a snort from escaping. He’ll play nice, he’ll play nice. Basile hasn’t blinked for a whole minute, his eyes honed in on Lucas’ face in silent begging, so he’ll play nice.

“I just said,” Chloe begins, brushing her bangs away from her face, “that I heard about you and Eliott, and I love it! Two guys together is so cute!”

Lucas’ tight smile drops immediately into a frown. A deep frown. His eyes harden, his tongue pressing tight behind his teeth. “Pardon?”

“You and Eliott!” Chloe continues, fucking oblivious to Lucas’ irritation, and Arthur and Yann’s frantic exchanged glances to his side. Basile’s staring at her now, an idiotic smile on his face – they really were a match made in heaven, fucking honestly. “You’re boyfriends, right?”

“Where did you hear that?” he asks, trying to stay even, though he can’t help that he spits it out a bit. This stupid fucking school, always in his fucking business… he wants to shut them all out forever. He doesn’t want anybody even saying his fucking name if he’s not there to hear it.

“Oh,” Chloe says softly, the tension hitting her now, and her eyes drop shyly. “It’s just passing around school, sorry. Are you not?”

“No, we’re not, he says, razor sharp and composed, biting. “And now that you know the truth, you can fix it if you hear somebody talking shit about it.”

Chloe looks… almost frightened now, and the Boys around him are holding their breaths and darting eyes away, and Lucas can’t deal with any of it. He has to go. He can’t be around them right now… he can’t be around their prying, trying to dig into every single part of his fucking life, as if they’re entitled to access. Just like the fucking counselor, snooping and creeping and tiptoeing around him, trying to approach when he wants five hundred miles of space between him and the world at all times. Everybody is so fucking annoying and clumsy and stupid and out of his control and he has to go. 

He stands up abruptly, swinging his legs away from the bench and grabbing his backpack off of the floor, throwing it roughly onto his back. The week’s events burn behind his eyes as he walks, his steps beating on the ground, and its inescapable. He thinks of all of his friends this week, teasing and not teasing, joking and not joking, trying to tell him what to feel or what to do or how to act and he, very suddenly, is overtaken by the urge to scream until his throat rips apart. _I have to text him,_ is all he can think as he storms through the school, heading to the parking lot to get in his car. He has to text him and fix this shit now, snuff it out before it can burn any further down the match.

_Hey. Thanks for the songs. You know we’re not boyfriends right?_

He sends it angrily without a second thought and focuses on getting to his car, encased in black windows, away from any eyes. Any eyes that even try to peek into his personal fucking business, split him open without permission. He can’t believe how far he’s allowed things to go… how much he’s exposed himself, how many cracks have fractured him – no wonder he was able to lose it so easily yesterday, he’d already been weakened. He needs to shut it all out. Get it all the fuck away. He’s been a fucking idiot, not paying enough attention and letting things slip through his hands, and he has to pick it all back up and clutch it back to his chest. 

He’s let things to become too fucking mixed, allowed them to bleed into each other, and he has to stop it immediately. Everything _has_ to be kept separate, his schoolwork, his friends, his fucks, his mother, his past, his own shitty stupid brain. All of it belongs in one thing and one thing only and he can’t allow them to cross paths any longer. Nobody and nothing can mess with his life if he doesn’t want them to - he _controls_ it.

The texts come from Eliott and he replies.

_Okay? Can we talk?_

_Tomorrow good?_

_Plan on it_

His head is clear. He knows what to do. He settles further into his chair, cradling his cigarette in his hands, and he closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😬😬 here we go lads
> 
> [Ficpost](http://summerhyuck.tumblr.com/post/183368473276/you-cut-through-all-the-noise-by-27tattoos-ao3) here!


	10. x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I did this justice.
> 
> I suppose I need to put a trigger warning, just to be safe: for some heavy stuff, a mental breakdown, panic attacks, that sort 💔
> 
> Thank you to my cheerleading goblins, uwu i love yall ❤️️ your support and kind words? >>>>> anything  
> AND a big thank you to everyone who comments such nice nice things, I read and reply to all :)

Friday, 09:36

_Arthur: where are you @ lucas?_

_Yann: we’ve met up by the cafeteria dude_

_Basile: I don’t want to wait for him_

_Arthur: man shut up_

Lucas reads the messages and ignores them. He is focused. He has tunnel vision. He runs through one pathway of thought, and one pathway only, and nothing can distract him today. He couldn’t sleep last night, instead chainsmoking by his window and leaning out to tap the ashes into the air, but his mind was clear. He came up with every single word he’s going to say, refining it, shaving it, perfecting it, and he hasn’t stopped cycling through since 2:30 in the morning. Even now, he catches himself mumbling the words unintentionally – as though it’s a sickness, taking over his body, physically ailing him. He clamps his teeth tight. He won’t let another word slip through his cracks, not until Eliott gets here. 

They’d agreed to meet this morning, in that same abandoned classroom they’d been to before next to the science rooms, during the short break. Lucas can’t imagine this conversation taking too long - his rehearsals have got this down to the last syllable. And he’ll fix everything, and he and Eliott will be fine from now on. He’ll tell him they just have to slow down a bit, and not get as lost in each other, and he’ll explain why boyfriends are _not_ a thing for him, and it’ll all work out. It will. Eliott will understand, like he has in the past. Things will go back to being good, and Lucas will live his life in separate pieces from now on. It’ll be much easier that way.

Eliott is late, though, and Lucas is already irked. He’s having to shift things around in his brain, rework the schedule, replan his rehearsals, and he’s just irked. If Eliott had been on time he would have already been speaking and things would be fixed by now. But he takes a deep breath, calming himself. Everything will be fine. He lifts his head, looking for a distraction. He refuses to look at his phone and messages anymore, instead forced to stare at the ugly mural on the wall of the classroom. It’s graffiti in style, big and loud and clashing in its colors, and he wrinkles his nose at it. Somebody should really cover it up with paint.

A noise catches in his ears and he turns his head – he knows it’s him. He watches Eliott walk in the door and snick it shut quietly behind him. Lucas holds his breath, tenses his lungs; his eyes already raking Eliott in, his sweet, soft body wrapped up in a black jacket and his hair and his eyes and his cheeks and his neck and all of it, all of it – but Lucas shoves it all away. Forcefully. No distractions. He’ll get all his words out and only then will he allow Eliott to register.

“Salut,” Eliott says quietly as he approaches him, slow and tentative. His toes are just the slightest bit turned in – but his chest is open and strong, not curled away. Not meek. Lucas pushes himself up from his lean against the wall, and approaches Eliott the same. They stand straight across from each other, a few feet apart. Close enough that Lucas could reach out and brush his fingers across his ribs, if he wanted. He swallows. “Salut,” he returns.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, curious. Almost like… it’s been the first time in a while since they’ve seen each other. Has it? Has it? Lucas tries to remember, reeling back in his memories… but he can’t, his brain feels foggy, he feels resolves slipping, he’s losing his grip as he stares into Eliott’s open face. His eyes are acting of their own accord, like the thread connecting to his brain has been severed – he traces along the soft lines of Eliott’s bones and watches the sweep of his eyelashes and he can’t stop himself, he can’t. He closes his eyes for a second to find himself again, scrambling to rein it back. He inhales once, low and even, and begins his words. He slips into routine.

“Listen, Eliott. I like you very much. These past few weeks have been incredible. Amazing. More than I…” he pauses, clears a lump in his throat, and pushes himself, _keep going, you idiot, don't choke out at the very beginning._ “Than I can say. I’ve had fun with you, lots of it. But now things are going too fast for me, and I need some time –”

His eyes dart over Eliott’s face in a back and forth, over and over, a swinging pendulum, and his words are cut off by Eliott’s movement. He watches carefully, so carefully it feels like half-speed, as Eliott raises a hand and brings it to his cheek, swiping his thumb along the tired, tender skin of his undereyes. Like he has before – that night, that stupid night that Lucas said more than he should, that night he tore off a rib, protecting everything inside, to hand to Eliott on a platter. Stupid stupid stupid stupid. “Lucas,” Eliott says quietly, gently, “what’s wrong? Can you please tell me what’s wrong?”

Lucas shakes his head, pushing his hand away. He won’t be stopped, he has to continue. He has to get it out. “I need some time. We can’t keep doing things like we’ve been doing. I’m losing focus on other things, important things, and it can’t happen anymore. So what we need to do –”

“Is it your mom?” Eliott breaks in, and the hairs rise on Lucas’ neck. His voice sounds… sounds too fucking soft. Too caring, too gentle. Like he’s trying to soothe, or placate, speaking to a wounded animal, as if he – as if he – as if he as any fucking clue. As if he has any right, to insert himself like this, to try and be a mediator in Lucas’ life. He does that on his own, fucking thank you. He doesn’t need anybody else to do it for him, and he hasn’t since he was fucking thirteen. Lucas’ eyes flash, and he’s suddenly very, very angry.

“No,” he spits, and his arms curl around his stomach on impulse, without awareness. “It’s not my mother. It’s you. You’ve fucked with my life, my time, my game, and I can’t let you anymore. It’s not good for me. It’s not good for you, either.”

Eliott recoils in shock, closing in on himself, his eyes turning pink with the effort to hold back tears. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he says, voice wobbling, wounded, and Lucas forces, _forces_ himself to not let a single _thread_ of guilt get to him. This is better for them. It’s better for him and it’s better for Eliott. He’s… he’s not someone to have a relationship with. He’s just not. It won’t fucking work. It’s two separate boxes. So he continues on, choosing his words carefully, to hurt.

“It’s too much with you. You cling and you get into my head and you’re texting me all the time. It's overbearing, and I don't like who I am anymore because of it,” Lucas says, composed and cold, losing the rest of his speech completely and speaking entirely on impulse now. “You’re making me lose myself, and this can’t happen. It _can’t_ happen. I have to stay in control of myself and you… you…”

Eliott wipes away tears furiously, leaving wet streaks on his cheeks, and he clenches his fists in rage, nearly shaking. “What? I what? Fucking say it.”

Lucas watches Eliott, and it feels like he’s beyond his body. He is detached, disconnected, completely cut off from himself… like he’s a separate entity, a soul without a home. Everything, everything is locked down, shut down. Everything is split. He speaks and his voice feels disjointed. Hollow. “You are too much for me, Eliott.”

Eliott doesn’t say a word, not for a minute. Another tear falls down but he blinks it away quickly, before screwing up his lips in a grimace, brow severe, and he spits his retort. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Lucas?” he says, so harshly, Lucas flinches. He’s never heard his voice sound like that before. “How can you be so… so fucking cold? Is anybody home in there? Do you have any feelings at all? Or are you just a walking body that sticks his dick in anything that drools for you?”

Lucas blinks, shocked, stepping backwards. “Fuck you,” he growls desperately. He wants him to stop talking, and now. He can’t hear this, he can’t he can’t. He feels a wave coming, and he doesn’t think the dam is strong enough to hold it off this time. 

“I can’t believe I ever…” Eliott laughs, though it’s cutting and unnatural and mean and Lucas hates it, he fucking hates it. Eliott is supposed to be sweet and preening and beautiful and now his words are ugly, screwed up in rage, the wrong kind of earnest, the honesty of anger. “I always wondered why. Why you always flaked out. Why you were always so fucking controlling. Why everything had to be done your way. And now I know.”

Lucas wants him to shut up. He wants him to shut the fuck up. He wants to cover his ears and crush his head between his hands so he doesn’t have to hear anybody speak to him ever again.

“You’re on fucking autopilot. Just a… a fuckboy, with nothing up there. Nothing at all.” Eliott won’t stop, he won’t fucking stop, and every word is a knife to his brain. He’s bleeding and it’s flooding and it can’t be stopped and Lucas is fucking panicking. It can’t be stopped. It’s too fucking late. “You’re so afraid of losing your stupid control that you have nothing now, no feelings or thoughts. You’ve shut it all out. It’s pathetic.”

Lucas is forced to shut his eyes when his breathing becomes so shallow, he has to pump his lungs manually, to slow them the fuck down. His throat feels like its swelling, his ribcage crushing itself, and he can’t fucking breathe, he can’t breathe he can’t breathe. He’s sick to his stomach. Even with his eyes closed, he can feel Eliott’s stare on him, his rage and repulsion, he can feel it like needles in his pores. He wants to scrub his skin off – it’s fucking agonizing.

“You’re crazy, Lucas,” Eliott says, cold, clear, and cruel. Lucas’ eyes open without his permission to allow tears to swell at the corners, and he watches Eliott’s back as he storms out of the room. 

Leaving him alone. Without a way to breathe.

Lucas is fucking panicking. He’s panicking. He hasn’t dealt with one of these since he was thirteen and he doesn’t know what to do anymore, he doesn’t know what to do when his mother isn’t here to help – he clutches his chest, his burning, wheezing chest, trying to force himself to calm and slow and ease but it’s not working. His lungs are _burning_ , and he’s suffocating. He stumbles against the wall, shoulder slamming painfully into the corner, and his hands scramble against for any sort of purchase or support, his fingers spreading to hold himself. 

He stands alone. He couldn’t say for how long. How long does it take for the body to rid itself of epinephrine? How long does it take for the heart to start pumping fresh, unsoiled blood into course? How long does it take for hands to stop their tremors, for cold sweat to evaporate from the neck, for the urge to vomit to subside, for neurons to stop firing at double speed? Lucas used to know the answer to these questions. He used to be able to pull them up at a moment’s notice – a necessity, for how often they’d come. But now, everything is gone. His brain is gone, memories are gone, unreachable. He is shelled. Scraped bare. 

He’s not even sure he knows how to speak anymore. His throat is curled shut.

His eyes feel tight when he blinks them away, his skin drawing from his squeezed out tears drying up. He stands up from his collapse against the wall, and he doesn’t feel woozy or dizzy like he thought he would. He feels nothing. There’s nothing. Nobody is there. His feet start walking forward on their own, dragging his body with them, as he leaves the room. The hallways are empty, people must be in class, but Lucas wanders down them, unseeing. His eyes glazed over. He might as well have them shut.

He makes it to his car, somehow; he doesn’t remember a single bit of the journey here. But he gets in, and he starts it, and he starts to drive, and he drives away, and he doesn’t blink, not once, as he stares at the road. 

 

Friday, time unknown

Lucas knows that time has passed. He knows. He’s seen the tracking of the sun change the lighting of his car, of the store he stumbled into to buy beer, of his hands after they light joint after joint. He’s watched it. He knows it as things turn dark, dusk falling, sweeping purple over orange, revealing his skin as it really is without the sunlight; pale and sickly and brittle. He knows time has passed. He knows it. But it all feels compressed into a single point, a minute, a minute only of time instead of hours and hours of the world turning. Lucas has been lost in the shuffle. He’s fallen out of the fabric. The world swallowed him up and was glad to see him go.

And so time goes on, but he is trapped. He’s trapped in these sixty seconds and he can’t move on to the next. It was only sixty seconds ago, that Eliott cracked a brick over his head and plunged his hands in the mess and threw it in Lucas’ face, it must have been, Lucas’ head still aches like it must have been. The weed is forcing his blood to float slow and easy, down a dreamy river, but everything still aches and his lungs still burn and he’s so fucking exhausted. The beer isn’t enough to make his eyes drop heavy and he needs something stronger. He needs it now or he’ll claw his skin off. 

He has no fucking idea what time it is. None at all. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here in his car, parked at some field in an open park to which he has no clue how he arrived, the stench of weed marinating into his skin. It’s awful. He might gag if he has to smell it any longer. So he starts his car and he drives into the night. He rolls down his windows and, for the first time in the hours that are sixty seconds in disguise, he breathes clean air.

With the clean air, the fresh air, a thought occurs to him. A memory, surfacing up from the blackness. A place with the supply of alcohol to make his eyes finally fucking close and a place where he can… he swallows. He starts watching down streets, anxiously checking the signs, until the buildings and corners start to look familiar. Cars pass around him – possibly. The sound of a city alive at night floats in his ears – possibly. He’s stuck in a minute of time and he’s not sure the world knows he exists. 

He pulls up to the house. He’s woozy on his feet as he gets out; his brain is gone, on another planet, he’s body only. He doesn’t know how he stays in balance. Maybe the world is propping him up a little bit, after all. He walks up to the door, slowly, stumbling, and knocks in a beating rap. He tries to focus on holding his head up straight as the door opens.

It’s the boy. Again. Lucas can’t remember the last time he saw him but he’s not sure he was looking at him until now. He drinks in his blonde hair and brown eyes and tiny nose and ears that are flat against his head and it’s a relief, it’s a relief to be looked at by someone who is so opposite of – Lucas swallows – of him. 

The boy raises an eyebrow. “Hello,” he says quietly, suspiciously, and Lucas’ charm turns on with the flick of a switch. He’s sure he reeks of weed and beer and unpleasantness and his smile feels too tight but he’ll push through it. “Hello,” Lucas returns, voice cracking, and he coughs to hide it.

“What do you want, Lucas? It’s late,” the boy sniffs, crossing his arms, and Lucas eyes flash manically. 

“Got any alcohol? Strong stuff? I’ve had a rough night, to be honest, and the only thing I can think of to make it better is a pretty boy with free drinks.” The words feel fucking slimey and disgusting and awful, awful, but he pushes down the bile in his throat and he smiles and smiles so hard his eyes start to tear and the boy rolls his eyes, his lips cracking upwards. 

“Alright then,” he smirks softly, standing aside to allow Lucas in, “if only so an alcohol smell can cover up the weed. You stink, Lucas.”

Lucas laughs, high and tittering and fake, and he slides in beside the boy. His eyes are blank as he waits in the living room for the boy to gather some drinks from the kitchen, unfocused as he stares at the wall. The same wall, the ugly yellowish spackled one from before, from that night. That first night after the meadow. And here he fucking is again, staring at the same wall with the same sinking feeling in his stomach and it’s all because of him. How long has it been because of him? How long has this been staring him in the fucking face? How badly has his stupid fucking brain fucked this up? Permanently. There’s no recovering from this. Eliott was fucking right. He’s nothing. He’s nothing.

The boy brings in a bottle of vodka from the kitchen with two glasses and Lucas hears him pour it, distantly, but his blood is rushing in his ears. He feels woozy again and he wants to fall over and never get back up.

The boy puts offers a glass to him and raises his own in a toast, but Lucas has already downed it in one swig. His eyes burn as he drinks it and he screws them shut, forcing it down. He needs it.

“Whoah, you alright there?” the boy laughs, and Lucas shakes his head. His laugh is annoying and he doesn’t want it to reach his ears so he’ll shake it away. “More,” he says, blinking prettily, raising his glass, and the boy doesn’t hesitate.

Lucas begins to lose track of how many he drinks. He begins to lose track of how many times the boy sweeps his eyes over him, licks his lips, raises his head to expose his throat. Lucas is getting so fucking drunk, he’s losing it. So many things have been stuffed inside of him and yet he still remains so fucking empty and he needs to feel something. Anything. Anything.

So he grins, even though he feels disgusting, and he cocks his neck too, and he takes the boy’s offered body. He presses wet lips to his neck and he allows his hands to catch in his shirt and he closes his eyes against it all, whimpering as the boy moans breathily. He feels sick to his stomach. Terribly sick. He can feel it twisting and writhing as the boy drags his hand along the inseam of his jeans and he can’t he can’t he can’t. It’s so wrong. This is so wrong and Lucas feels fucking sick. 

“Where’s your bathroom?” he says suddenly, yanking himself away, curling in like he’s been burned, and the boy’s eyes snap open in confusion. 

“The fuck?” he scowls, pouting, and Lucas doesn’t have the fucking time. He’s going to vomit. He feels it rising. He bolts up from the couch and scrambles to the door, swinging it open and not bothering to shut it before he races down the steps, only just barely making it to the street before he’s heaving. He chokes, his eyes stinging, his nose burning, and it won’t stop coming up. His back trembles with the effort. 

He hears vaguely, in the distance, over the sound of his sick splashing on the pavement, the boy call out his name. “Don’t fucking come back here again, you fuck! You’re fucking pathetic, you know that?” he shrieks before the door slams, and Lucas knows. He’s vomiting his fucking guts out, he knows.

The next minute has come. The hours sink in. He’s never felt more pathetic in his life.

 

Friday, time unknown

Lucas doesn’t know how he managed to pull it off. But he’s arrived home. Maybe a beacon guided him. Or an angel. Or maybe he’s so terrified, so fucking terrified of everything being destroyed, of his precious, beautiful dam, gone, of his deepest fucking fear being yanked into the light and examined from all sides and ripped to shreds in front of him by a boy he kissed and held and danced around a fountain with mere days ago, of his brain finally, finally being able to find the words for that creeping lurking ugly fucking mass that has plagued him for years and years – that he’s just like his mother, crazy, and he’s just like his father, cold, and his life has been handed down to him and there’s no escaping what’s been written into fate. He’s so terrified of all of it that he does what he knows best. He runs back home to his mother.

Stepping into her house makes him nauseous; the hyperclean atmosphere only serves to embolden how badly he smells of alcohol and weed and vomit. He might throw up again. He feels it coming up his throat. Ouba skitters across to him, sniffing at him, before leaving again and flouncing off, clearly revolted. For some reason, that makes Lucas laugh. But it’s ugly and snotty and hiding an edge of hysteria that could turn into sobs with one snap.

He closes his eyes. Sways on his feet. He’s having trouble keeping his head up – it drops around on his neck, uncontrolled and heavy from being filled with cement. He’s so fucking tired. He’s so, so tired. He has to lie down before he dies.

He walks. Past the living room couch, past the kitchen, past it all, into the hallway. Each step that takes him closer shoots paralyzing fear up his legs, into his heart, seizing his lungs, but he keeps walking. He has to go in. He has to lie down before he dies.

He approaches the door to his childhood bedroom and he turns the knob. He pushes it open. It’s a struggle to get it open all the way, from the shit blocking it, but he manages to shove his way through and he enters his room. He hasn’t laid eyes on it or thought about it in years and years and he couldn’t have told anybody what it had looked like if they asked him but now, standing here, memories swimming behind his eyes, it feels more familiar to him than breathing.

The boxes upon boxes of stuff, so much stuff, clothes and toys and books and old appliances and trash and cleaning supplies and every dirty thing that didn’t have a place to belong in the rest of the nice, clean house, shoved and smuggled away inside here. It’s all piled high and surrounding, mountains of it filling the room. The trash, everywhere, littering the floor, its smell souring the air. The thick layer of grime and dust settled into the carpet, of which Lucas’ doesn’t remember the original color. There’s so much fucking stuff. Only a narrow, short pathway is cleared for Lucas to reach his bed. Every other space is filled up with _shit._

He has to go lie down, _now_ , before he dies. He walks to his bed, careful not to knock any precarious piles over with his stumbling, and he collapses face first. The sheets, his pillowcase, his blankets from his childhood… they all smell nice and clean. They’ve been washed recently.

That ends it for Lucas. He begins to cry.

Everything. Everything. All of it that has been building up, straining at the dam for five years, floods forward and it’s torrential. It’s unstoppable. Lucas has never felt so _much_ of one thing before in his life and he can’t breathe with how much he’s choking on it. He gasps for air, his sobs wretched and terrible and dry, and he cries out for his mother. He screams. He can’t fucking breathe, he can’t fucking breathe.

He’s clawing at his own throat when she comes in, frantic, and he hears her cry out, but it sounds like she’s underwater. His lungs are shutting down and his body is collapsing underneath all of the water and he’s drowning. He is drowning. 

He feels her weight drop onto the bed, and he feels her arms wrap him up, and he hears her voice soothing and quiet and practiced, dropping into old routine, and he remembers. He remembers the routine, the way her voice goes up and down, lilting, like music, and he follows along with the notes in his head. She rubs his back, and holds him, and he, very, very slowly, as slow as the world’s turn, over the course of the hours, begins to come up for air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: summerhyuck  
> [ficpost](http://summerhyuck.tumblr.com/post/183368473276/you-cut-through-all-the-noise-by-27tattoos-ao3) here if so inclined :)


	11. xi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm.. a hesitant hello
> 
> this chapter is really explanation-y and should hopefully give answers for any lingering questions – I really, really hope that it's not too boring, oof. And if it is – I'm sorry! Forgive me in advance. I'm pretty nervous to post this one so... just yike. Again, I hope I've done this justice and that it turns out to better than I think it is 😬
> 
> [my tumblr](http://www.summerhyuck.tumblr.com) / [ficpost](http://summerhyuck.tumblr.com/post/183368473276/you-cut-through-all-the-noise-by-27tattoos-ao3)

Monday, 11:47

Lucas spreads his fingers further into soil. He’s lying on his back in the soft grass of the meadow, head swirled with the petals of drooping, sun-wrinkled flowers, and he stares up at the sky. The sun is just overhead, blazing down, so he has to close his eyes at it passes, shield from the brightness, before he can open his eyes again. It takes an hour. He hasn’t moved a millimeter since he came here early this morning, and he doesn’t plan on moving in any of the hours to come. 

His fingers and his lips and his lungs itch for a cigarette but his pack is all the way in his car and he can’t move – and his lungs feel brittle, his windpipe delicate, side effects of a harsh, persistent lump in his throat. So. He’s not sure a cigarette is the best idea, anyway. The itch won’t go away, and he can’t soothe it, so he lives on it with it. Nothing else to do.

Since Friday, a valve has been opened inside him. Things have been flooding back, in torrents, and he’s helpless to push it away or hold it back. So he’s stopped trying. He’s reserved himself to it now, too exhausted to fight. He is made of memories. He swims in them for hours, closing his eyes against them, the weight of two lives pressing in at once, the past and the present. It’s draining. So draining. He’s not sure which is the right one anymore. Conflict drags on inside him, waging wars – which is true, which is real, which is _actually_ happy and which is just Lucas mistaking happiness for nostalgia of who he used to be – and it’s fucking exhausting. He aches down to his bones with how tired he is.

So that’s why he lies in the meadow, now, the only place in the entire world where he can shut off and close his eyes. Not at his mother’s, where Ouba scratches at his feet or his mother coddles and nudges and uses her soft voice around him. Not at his home, where Manon and Mika would demand eye contact and regular eating and answers that Lucas can’t give. Certainly not at school – honestly, Lucas would rather kill himself than set foot in that school again right now. And not on his phone, where he’s surely getting the influx of messages, asking where he is, _again,_ addressing rumors, _again,_ mentioning _him, again._ He cannot. He cannot bear it, any of it.

The meadow asks nothing of him. The meadow curls around him, tickles against his skin, enfolds him in its soft, breezy embrace, and lets him close his eyes and sink into the dirt. He can’t do anything more than that, and the meadow doesn’t expect it. So this is why he lies here, now, spread eagle, palms up, the sun warming his skin. He is not happy. But he is quiet. And that’s enough for now.

Noon turns to 13:00 turns to 14:00 turns to 15:00, and still, Lucas lies motionless. Even the thought of moving exhausts him. But his mother will be expecting him soon for dinner, and she’ll want to check in with him and talk and begin her well-meaning but tiring prods, and he’ll have to comply, so there’s no getting around it. He’s already worried her enough. Though every single cell is screaming at him to stay here and decay into the Earth, he scrapes up every ounce of effort he possesses to stir his limbs and get up and go.

In the drive back home, it’s harder to keep the peace when he can’t close his eyes. Anxieties creep in. He’ll face his mother soon, and he should probably check his phone to assess the damage, and God, he’s missing school again, how is he going to make this all up, it’s almost the end of the year, and, and, and. The valve that opened him up again to his second life wasn’t selective. Everything, all the shit he’s kept in the dark for years and years, is in the light now. There is no pushing things down, anymore, when the pool has been filled with water. Everything floats up. 

He’d woken up Saturday morning with his eyes still swollen shut. It was fucking painful to open them, to tend at the puffiness and the soreness, but he unwound himself from his bed and from the tight, clutching hold of his mother and he went to the bathroom and did it anyway. He couldn’t bear to look at himself in the mirror - it would fucking kill him - so he wet his fingers from the sink and turned his back to it so he wouldn’t even be tempted as he gingerly, cautiously rubbed his eyes.

He also treated the sores on his neck, the raw scratches from his own nails. And he walked to the kitchen and gulped a glass of water to soothe the horrid cracks in his throat. And he went outside into the morning light for only a few seconds, the most he could stand, to get fresh air in his lungs, air that wasn’t tinged with the horrid, sour smell of all his family’s filth and mess and shames that were shoved into Lucas’ room to be dealt with later – as in never. All of it had fallen on his tiny kid shoulders and he bore the burden without a peep.

He’d been a husk all weekend. An empty shell. Most of it is a blur – he doesn’t remember much besides sleeping and staring at the wall for a few hours before sleeping again and not moving and not eating and not speaking, his muscles tightening and his bones rusting with disuse. Being awake brought memories and memories were bricks thrown heavy onto his chest and he was helpless to get rid of them and so he slept instead. 

When he didn’t sleep, he played the piano. He can feel tears prickling, as the weekend comes back to him, but now, driving in his car, he can’t close his eyes. There’s no escaping. So he surrenders instead. Nothing else can be done.

Saturday morning, he’d searched frantically through his room, sifting through the garbage, looking for a box that he knew contained books upon books of sheet music. When he was thirteen, after his mother had passed out in the kitchen from the fumes of all of her fucking cleaning chemicals and he hadn’t noticed because he’d been too busy playing, after he was locked in his room for two days while his father pried open Lucas’ beautiful, prized piano and cut the strings before taking his mother to the hospital, and Lucas had received the message loud and clear that the piano was finished; after all of that, he’d had to hide the box of his music books deep inside, piled under the filth, where no one else could reach it. 

But he still remembered exactly where he’d put it, and it had taken only minutes to find it again. Clutching the box to his chest, he’d slumped to the piano in the living room, and played every single song from every single book, songs that he hadn’t heard in years. After his mother had returned from the hospital, a few days after the incident, she’d been appalled learning that his father destroyed the piano. She demanded it be fixed immediately, but Lucas knew, after that. He couldn’t play anymore. It was forbidden. 

No more concerts or recitals. No more coaxing his mother out of her room with her favorite lullabies or mastering tricky fingerwork for the pride of being able to show off for his father. No more sneaking to the piano at night to drown out the sounds of his parents arguing in their room, no more playing for hours upon hours and getting terrible cramped hands he’d had to visit doctors for. No more of it. None. He decided, that day, under the hard, challenging eyes of his father ignoring the begging of his mother to fix the piano and let him play again, that he was done with it. He would split himself off and build his dam up and he would never, ever love something like that ever again. Ever.

He had hidden the books in fear, unable to let go, not quite yet. Maybe, maybe, maybe someday, he could find his way to it again. And then, Saturday morning, playing them again, hearing songs from his childhood, slipping easily into familiar finger patterns and taps of his feet and rise and falls of his chest, it was divinity. A fray had stitched together inside him, pieces that he’d pointlessly tried to force together for years, finally, _finally_ becoming whole, and… and a breath, five years in the making, had been released and Lucas could feel the weight of it leave him and… and sitting on that piano bench in the calm hours of the morning, however slightly and however quietly, a sever had been healed. 

The present Lucas is pulled out of his head by a rumbling sound; his car drifting into the other lane. He snaps back, jerking the wheel over again, fixing himself. He blinks and shakes his head, clears it all away, puts past Lucas to rest – for now. But he won’t lock it all up anymore. He’ll come back to it again. 

 

Monday, 18:26

His mother eyes him from the kitchen as he walks into the door. Ouba approaches him, scuffling to his feet and yipping excitedly, and Lucas bends down to greet her. “Hello, hello my baby,” he whispers, still scruffing at her chin, and he needs to stand up, his legs are cramping, but some sort of fear is rooting him to the spot. He knows something is coming, his all-day worries coming to a head, now, and he… he doesn’t want to deal with it. He’s too afraid.

“Where were you, mon chou?” his mother calls from the kitchen, and it’s not prying, or passive-aggressive, or snappy. She’s kind and genuine and loving, has been working extra hard to pour herself into every conversation since Friday night and the following Saturday morning, where she found him crying at the piano, and Lucas appreciates it, he does. He loves his mother more than anything. But he’s just. So tired. And her extra sweetness should be met with extra effort and it’s just something he can’t give of himself yet.

“I went out. To the meadow. Just to relax,” he says carefully, walking into the kitchen. She’s cooking something nice, and Lucas hasn’t been able to eat much over the days so he’s relieved that his stomach rumbles when he smells it.

“I’m glad,” she says, stirring at the pot, but she reaches a hand out anyway to rub down his arm in assurance. He turns to meet her touch. “I’m glad you took some time away. I think you needed it.”

Lucas swallows and nods, and he meets her eyes briefly before breaking away. There’s so so much in them, so much sincerity and knowing, and he’s too afraid of confirming her suspicions if he looks too hard. So he doesn’t. He instead slumps into the kitchen table, and returns to playing with Ouba, and they don’t speak again until she sets the food on the table to eat.

He thanks her, tucks in, and eats, something he hasn’t done in days. It comforts him. Who knew that putting food in his constantly sickened stomach would help ease some of the anxiety and the tension and the swirling bile? Lucas didn’t. He'd have never guessed. He’s so caught in scarfing it down and making himself full that he almost misses his mother clearing her throat. 

“We have to talk, my son. I know it’s going to make you uncomfortable, I’m sure, and I know it’s daunting and scary and makes your hands shake. But we have to. As scary as talking is, nothing is scarier than silence. Okay?”

Lucas swallows the last bite of his food thickly, and it feels like sludge going down, his windpipe tightening around. He nods, small and quiet, and looks down. He’s silent, for a long while, too busy reaching hands inside of himself, looking for something to pull up. Somehow, with his mother’s eyes on him and Ouba by his feet and his own fingers tucked into his palms, he finds the courage to begin. He doesn't know if he can continue... but he begins, and it's enough.

“I think I’m like you, Mama,” he says, and he thought he’d never be able to say those words, never never never. But sitting here, across from his mother, who has screamed at him for tracking mud into the house, who has held him hundreds of times over the span of years and sung to him in the same rhythm it takes to slow his panicked breathing down, who yelled at his father for destroying his beautiful piano and replaced it immediately and never stopped asking him to play again, who is now going to therapy and getting her shit together for herself and for her son and for her dog – sitting across from her, he feels more brave than he’s ever felt in his life. And saying it becomes easy. He finds words for feelings he's held clutched to his chest for years now, and the relief of letting all of it go... he trembles with the weight.

“I’ve known it for a long time, I think – subconsciously, at least. But I’ve always pushed it away, because… because I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to admit it or deal with it because –“ he pauses, wavering, unsure if he should continue… but he does. He’ll meet her sincerity and he’ll put the effort in, even if it terrifies him. “I’d seen the life you lived, and I didn’t want that for myself. So I thought if I just ignored it, or pushed it down, it would go away and I could be normal. I could be fine.”

His mother nods solemnly, and her eyes are shiny and wet and Lucas can’t handle that. So he fumbles on without thinking, clumsy, the words tripping over themselves.

“I’m sorry I never told you, I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner, and I'm so, so sorry that I left – I – I was just so caught on this idea of breaking away from who I was supposed to be or how my life had been told to go and I should’ve just accepted it and – reserved to a life of it instead of trying to be – or – or act better.” 

He stares up at her with wide eyes, searching her face, desperate for some sort of sign that she knows, she gets it and she can assure him with her words and kind smiles like she always has when he’s in a panic. But she stares at him, hard, and leans forward in her chair.

“Listen to me, Lucas. You listen to me. This is not your fault. It is not. And it is not my fault, either. You need to know that. It is my fault that I allowed such things to happen, that I made you feel unsafe or scared when you were growing up, that I put shit on you that you shouldn't have had to deal with… that is on me and those are –“ she swallows, “– my most terrible regrets in life. But these thoughts that invade us and our brains, that tell us what to do or what to say so we can meet some bullshit standard of being good enough? That’s not our fault.”

Lucas’ mouth drops slightly open as he listens, his ears turning, his chest opening to accommodate. He’s never heard his mother speak with such conviction or surety of herself, and he’s – he’s in awe. 

“Mental illness is nobody’s fault. You must understand that, son. You must. Nobody chose to give it to us, it just happened. And we have it take it as we are. It’s a part of us, and it affects our lives – more than we want it to, and there's no use in running away from it. It has to be accepted. But you listen to me,” she says, hard and unwavering, and as she speaks, Lucas feels like she’s peering down into the threads of his soul and he cannot look away.

“It is up to us what we choose to do with this. We can choose to cower in a corner all our lives, playing the victim – that what I chose to do, certainly. We can choose to push it away, or ignore it, or submit to it completely, or let it dictate how we treat others, or use it as an excuse for fears, or this, or this. Or, we can choose to do better. We live with this, and there’s no getting past that. But the choice is up to us for _how_ we live with it, and I, Lucas, I will no longer spend my life cowering. I will stare it in the face and I will meet its every challenge and I will not be a passive victim while my life runs by.”

Lucas’ mouth has gone dry. His mother’s words echo in his brain, pummel at the walls and strip away the rot and – for the very first time in his life, the very first fucking time, he feels understood. He feels _understood._ “How?” he asks quietly, evenly, voice small, and she nods.

“Take medications. Talk to a therapist and learn mindfulness. Stop letting negative thought patterns run in a loop. Tell the truth. Spend time with friends. Talk and talk, don’t stay silent. Use the bad days to further appreciation for the good days. Don’t turn away from your emotions, no matter how strong or scary they are – let them run their course, they’ll poison you if push them down and ignore them. Take it day by day. And when that gets too hard, take it hour by hour. And when that gets too hard, take it minute by minute. You won’t let it steal your life from you – you’ll live through it together, no matter how long it takes.”

Lucas has been cracked open, and things spill in an overflow that he’s helpless to contain, so he lets them. He doesn’t push it down or cut it off or snuff it out. He lets them. Tears build in his eyes and he lets them run, and he wipes them away as they fall, but he doesn’t stop himself. He cries and cries, and his mother stands up from the table and crosses to him and leans down to embrace him, and she might be crying too, Lucas is unsure, his eyes are blurry and snot is pouring out of his nose and his back shakes, but he doesn’t stop. He lets himself cry and be held, sitting at the kitchen table of his childhood home, with the same mother he’s lived his entire life with, with his mother who fills gaps and soothes cracks that nobody else can reach, who understands, who knows. He breathes in and out, shaky and clumsy and fitted in against his sobs, but he doesn’t run away. Not this time.

 

Wednesday, 14:03

Lucas has received many, many texts. At least three hundred from The Boys, all of which he hasn’t opened, but he’s sure he has a good idea of what they contain. He can’t right now. He just can’t. The amount of energy it would take to read them all and lift his fingers to reply would kill him. So he closes his phone and he puts it off for now. He’ll commit to doing it later.

He gets texts from some of the girls, too, just asking if he’s okay, and it warms him, however slightly. He doesn’t reply to any of them either – too too much, he’s so tired, it’s all too much – but he sees them and he knows and he appreciates all the same.

And he gets texts from Manon and Mika and – they’re the first to not have question marks in them. They just want him to know they miss him, and they hope he’s okay and safe and eating and sleeping, and Manon has new recipes she’s trying that she wants his feedback on, and Mika has finally mastered that difficulty melody he was working on and he really wants Lucas to hear. Lucas feels sick with how much he misses them. He imagines hugging them, and how comforted he’d feel, how safe… and he swallows. He doesn’t know if he can do it yet. He’s already fragile enough, as it is – he thinks it might break him, again.

So he closes his phone and throws it on the floor, far away from the couch where he can’t reach. He resettles his head on the armrest, curling his toes against Ouba’s sleeping body at the other end of the couch, and he stares up at the ceiling. Quiet. Thinking. Again, as is the trend for the week, memories are bubbling up to the surface, of Manon and Mika, of the little family he built for himself where his mother and father fell short, and he closes his eyes against the wave. He smiles. He'll gladly lose himself in these.

After thirteen, after giving up the piano and splitting himself into parts and dumping everything into boxes and beginning to piece together his dam, stone by stone, Lucas stopped having the panic attacks that would frequent him in childhood. He became cool. Suave. He smoothed a mask over himself and began to remake from the weird kid who played piano too much into a flirter, a charmer, a cocky little shit with a word for every conversation and a move for every kid in school. There was nobody he couldn’t pull in. Very quickly, through the years of secondary school, he figured out it was boys who did it for him. He settled into it without issue.

At fifteen, his father officially fucked off, a move Lucas had been anticipating for years. He gifted him his car in lieu of parting words, and Lucas took it in stride – driving around illicitly would only solidify his Cool Kid status. It was great. Things were fine. He forced himself to listen to his mother’s crying at night instead of closing off his ears, exposing and desensitizing and numbing himself to it all. He wouldn’t make the same mistake as last time.

And then, just before sixteen, he met Manon. He was pretty well established in his school, at this point, and he was a dick about it. A horrible dick. He’d smoke in between classes and turn his nose at other kids walking by and push everyone away, away, away, anyone who wouldn’t submit to his dominating control or anyone that tried to get too close or anyone who even breathed wrong around him. And Manon was the only one brave enough to call him out on it, once defending a kid who he’d snapped at, and he’d been floored. She saw past him, saw past all his stupid bullshit and his fake drawls and his affected grandeur - she was the only one.

Into sixteen, he began the pursuit to become her friend, and still, to this day, he thinks he’s the luckiest person in the world that she let him. He managed to tell her things, things he hadn’t told anyone, before – not everything. Not at all. Some things had already been tucked far away, unreachable, at that point. But enough to get her to tell him things back – she had shitty parents too, parents that hopped country to country without a care for the child back at home, and Lucas had nearly trembled in relief, when he heard. Finally. Someone who might – who could possibly even begin – to understand. He’d found her. 

She told him she didn’t live with her parents, anymore, that she lived with one of her friends, an older boy named Mika, in her own apartment. Lucas had jumped on the offer to move in with her the second the words left her mouth. He couldn’t picture it, living on his own, away from all the shit, from all the headaches, from hearing all the cries, from staying in a room filled to the brim with garbage. But now that the option, even the _idea_ that he could escape had been presented to him, there was no going back now. He was gone.

And slowly, he’d built the life he’d come to realize now. He settled into his new apartment with Manon, and Mika, who he’d clashed with at first – they couldn’t be more of opposite gays – but fallen into an easy back and forth with soon enough. He entered high school and met Yann shortly after, and acquired his crew, took his place at the top. Three years of fucking around, getting drunk and high every weekend and luring boys to his car and memorizing addresses and keeping a roster in his head of fucks to shuffle through, perfected his reputation down to a T -and furthered his split, locked everything away, added more boxes, and pushed the horrible suspicions and worries and terrors deeper and deeper into the blackness of water. He stayed fine. He lived through the motions. He checked up on his mother via text, only finding the courage to visit her in person every other week or so. And then… 

Lucas opens his eyes. He won’t think about it anymore. Not that party, not that stupid joint… none of it. Though it’s painful and awful and so, so hard, he’s sinking into his memories, allowing feelings to be brought to thoughts to be brought to words, and slowly, so very slowly, he’s accepting what his life has been. He’s dealing with it. . But he _can’t_ rewind to… to Eliott. He cannot fucking do it. He feels his throat closing, his body paralyzing at even the thought of it. He’s sick of choking. He wants to fucking breathe, for once in his life.

He turns on the TV and reaches for Ouba down at his feet, and he strokes her soft fur and watches the screen but doesn’t hear a word they’re saying. He’ll text Manon and Mika soon, figure out a plan. But, at least, for now, he thinks he deserves to shut his brain off for a while. He just needs a break. He’ll come back to – to meeting everything in the face, to not cowering away, to all of that. But he just needs a fucking break.

 

Friday, 12:37

_Lucas: hey. i’m coming home today._

_Manon: okay! are you sure?_

_Lucas: Yes_

_i’ve talked to my mother and it’s all figured out, so we’re good._

_Mika: I can’t wait to see you kitten!! We have to throw a homecoming party for you!!!_

_Lucas: you’re fucking kidding me right?_

_Mika: …..yes. Obviously. Just a quiet night in of course. Drinking?_

_Manon: mika!!! no drinking you idiot!!!_

_Lucas: no, no it’s fine. some wine sounds nice, to be honest._

_Manon: as long as youre sure.._

_Lucas: ive been cooped up here for a week. I need alcohol._

_Mika: 💃💃💃_

_Manon: alright. a little bit, then._

_Lucas: a little bit._

_i’ve missed you guys. more than I can say._

_Manon: ❤️️_

_Mika: We’ve missed you too kitten 😊😘 Can’t wait to see you_

 

Friday, 17:31

Parting ways with his mother is harder than he thought. Much, much harder. Even though he tells himself over and over that he’ll be visiting her often, so often she’ll probably be sick of him, some small, cracked, vulnerable part of him screams at him - let her hold you, let her brush your hair away from your face and stroke your cheeks and sing to you and never never let her go. He wants to give in. He wants her to hold his hand through all of this, through this monumental undertaking he has ahead of himself. But he is not a child anymore. He will not be.

“Je t’aime, mon chou,” she whispers in his ear as he gives her another hug, and he doesn’t want to cry, but it spills over anyway, a thread down his cheek. He closes his eyes as she pulls back and wipes away the tear, tender and motherly. He’s indebted to her. For everything.

“Je t’aime, Mama. À bientôt.” He gives her a final squeezing hug, and leans down to give Ouba his goodbyes – five minutes of them, but who’s counting, shh – before he turns around, opens the door, and leaves. There are so many more things to be worked out, so many more words and apologies and explanations that need to pass between them, so much shit to fix, wounds to heal, progress to be made. And they will, in time. But he has to leave now - he has another life to live - and so he'll find peace with the knowledge that he will return.

Away from his home, to his home. He’s very, very lucky to have two.

He manages to stay flat and stoic on the drive there, but as he gets closer, waves build. He’s not sure how to feel – excited? Anticipatory? Joyful? Nervous? Scared fucking shitless? He has no answers. So he decides on a ball of it all, jumbled and anxious and tearing away inside him, chewing on his insides. It’s a bit awful. He wants to jump out of the car to get rid of it. But he drives on, his mother’s voice in his head a warm, firm reminder. He won’t run away from it. He’ll let it stay and it will pass. He knows it.

The feeling doesn’t ease as he parks across the street, or as he gets out, or as he walks to the building, or as he ascends the staircase to get to the right floor. In fact, he thinks as he approaches the door, he thinks he might need a moment to vomit. For a split second, he longs for the life before, where everything was kept on lockdown and it was all too easy to flick off these terrible, horrible fucking emotions with the flick of a single switch. He wilts a little inside, thinking about it – maybe his mother was wrong. He doesn’t think he can do this. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

But then, he slides his key into the door with shaking fingers. He turns it and pushes it open. And he steps inside – and all his terrors, his worries and his warring, writhing emotions in the pit of his stomach slip away, fade into background noise, and he doesn't even notice. He sees Manon and Mika’s beaming faces, waiting for him at the door, and all he feels is the swelling, sweeping tide of love for his little family.

The rest of the day progresses like this: they fall into each other’s arms, all a wet, sloppy, snotty mess – Lucas has cried more in these week than he has in years and he never thought it would feel so fucking _good._ They slowly pull themselves together and wipe their noses and gather on the couch, and Mika cracks open the special bottle of wine he bought earlier today for the occasion, because all they’d had in their cupboards was from 2016. They call in an Uber Eats instead of having Manon cook and Lucas stuffs himself with sickeningly greasy food and feels satisfied down to the bones afterwards. They talk and talk, roar, more like, as they catch up with each other and crack joke after joke and tell wildly dishonest stories and pull out a few card games to play, sinking further and further into the couch, wine drunk, their skin flushed and warm and buzzing from the joy of it all.

And the evening turns into the night, and their eyes droop from the alcohol, but it’s pleasant and blissful in its heaviness, like the satisfaction of curling into bed after a long day and knowing sleep will come instantly. And Manon and Mika drag Lucas to the piano, begging him to play, they haven’t heard his beautiful playing in so long, pretty, pretty please? And Lucas obliges because he’s drunk and he feels safe and warm and at ease and he won’t turn away from his conflicted history with the piano, he’ll meet it face on and he’ll brush over the pain of the old memories with the joy of new ones and he’ll live his life together with it from now on. 

His drunken playing is terrible, the rhythms off and his fingers stumbling over the keys but it makes Manon and Mika howl with laughter so he doesn’t stop. He plays and plays, nonsense, made up songs, that run into nothing and never end, and he feels free and light and happy, a world and a lifetime away from the thirteen year old who hid his sheet music in his room, cowering in fear. 

 

Friday, 23:06

Manon and Mika snooze away on the couch, tangled up in each other, snoring and drooling and making a hilariously ugly picture but Lucas loves them more than he knows what to do with. He can’t sleep yet, the heaviness of his limbs and lids from the wine slowly dissipating as he becomes impassioned with an idea. 

It’s probably stupid. Really fucking stupid, awful, terrible. He’ll look back on this tomorrow when he’s completely sober and want to punch himself in the face for being so stupid. But for some reason… he just… he feels like it’s something important. He feels like something is pushing him to do it, that it’s urgent, that it’s the right thing to do, somehow, to make something whole, and he can’t let it go or stop turning it over in his head. So he does it anyway. Future Lucas will have to deal with it tomorrow but for now, he knows he has to do it. He just knows.

He had rediscovered a song, rifling through his childhood books, one that he’d forgotten was a favorite of his. [Le Cygne by Saint-Saens.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q6SWpm5LoZY) The Swan. It is quiet and melancholic, sweet and soulful and delicate, beautiful. Just beautiful. He doesn’t remember the notes for it, not fully, so he searches for sheet music on his phone, and pulls it up, and scans over it, willing himself to remember. To let it come back to him. He closes his eyes, trying to get it all down. 

He thinks he has it. And if he doesn’t… a few mistakes are nothing to lose himself over. So he takes a deep breath, and he does it - he follows what something, somewhere, somehow, is telling him to do. 

He pulls up a recording app on his phone and sets it just at the top, where the floating notes of his music can be caught by it. And he begins playing. It’s already a quiet song, but he quiets it further, not wanting to wake Manon and Mika up. This is… this is something he must do privately. It’s for him, and for _him_ , only.

The music pours through his fingers with ease, the repeating, growing chords a relief for the lingering bits of tension, of discord, in the tendons of his hands. He does make a few mistakes, a few off notes here and there, a few bumps in the road, but he doesn’t let it stop him. He continues on. For four minutes he plays, and when he finishes, it feels as though he’s taken something of himself, something vital, something… deep, and embedded, and he’s made it tangible through pressing keys and now, here it sits, in the recording app of his phone, a piece of himself written down for history, a piece of himself able to be shared. 

He presses the home button on his phone and pulls up his messages, hesitating for a split second before tapping Eliott’s contact. He doesn’t look at their last messages or linger on the photo he has for Eliott’s profile picture, the one he took of him that day at Le Jardin des Tuileries, pulling a stupid face next to a statue – he does what he came to do, only. He attaches the audio of his song in a new message, and he presses send, and he closes his phone. He’s done it. No going back now.

He stands up from the piano bench and falls back into the couch, settling next to Manon, who lies snoring next to Mika, and within a minute, all three of them sleep soundly together in the center of their home.


	12. xii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🙈 yeah I'm sorry it took so long askjdfls I got some major block and I didn't like any of what was coming out so whew it was a Big struggle but finally I'm done and can move on from stupid to the next stupid lmao but! good things are happening from now on, promise :)
> 
> thank you to many many people who helped me with everything, zoe and banushka and rosie and others, thank you thank you, here's my heart, take it ❤️️
> 
> AND as always thanks for such nice comments and patience! :)

It gets much easier to breathe, for Lucas. Manon and Mika keep careful eyes on him and stay extra sweet and make him sit at the dinner table every night to talk, and scold him for smoking – he still does it, secretly, but he appreciates the concern all the same. His mother texts and sends him pictures of Ouba every day and he’s learning from her, slowly, how to survive. He keeps sparse communication with The Boys, just quick check ins or occasional memes to make him laugh and he misses them but he’s afraid. He’s so afraid. He's afraid of everything changing, of people who he's known for years and gets an ego stroke out of impressing changing their views of him in a snap, of drowning in schoolwork without time to catch up, of all this hard work to change and become better being a waste of time and energy because maybe his mother is hiding the inevitability of all this from him somehow, to protect him, and there's no hope after all. Worries cycle constantly.

And that’s why, all the time, in every minute, he feels sick.

It sits heavy in the pit of his stomach. It hollows his eyes and sharpens his bones. It shifts everything in his brain three millimeters to the right where he can still find his way around but something, just a slight something is off that disorients him. He aches, the pains sharp and deep under the skin. His joints catch against each other when he moves and everything, everything makes him tired.

But no matter how much sleep he gets, no matter how many reassurances from his three different families, no matter how many times he takes a piece of paper and dumps every worry and horrible thought onto the page and buries it in the garbage afterwards, he is still. So tired. The anxiety and the exhaustion and the guilt from the anxiety and exhaustion don’t go away. They sit and stay and make him sick. A foreign being is in his body and it scares the fuck out of him because the foreign being is _him._ He’s trapped in himself and also out of himself and he can’t explain or brings words to any of it which makes him even more guilty because everyone is right there to help him and comfort him but he can’t, he can’t. 

Somehow, somehow, the only person he can tell is Eliott.

He doesn’t use words. He sits at the piano, all the shit and dark bits and swirls of muck leaving him through his hands as he plays. He spends most of his time there, finding songs to play, listening and plucking around on the keys until he figures out the notes, and [he sends it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IKWiifqFvUo) to Eliott. [Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ioQ__iFcdSU) after [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uBzUfjkdPq4) after [song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EFJ7kDva7JE) His head and his heart transcribed into hammers and strings and the vibration of molecules in the air. It’s just like speaking, isn’t it?

It’s all he can say.

He moves around and he eats and he talks and jokes around with his friends and Manon and Mika but all he can say is to Eliott. 

He hopes he’s listening.

 

Tuesday, 10:51

Lucas sits, tired and heavy, on the couch, and the TV is turned on and his phone is playing quiet music but it's still not enough noise to tamp down the buzzing silence in his brain. He's texting back and forth with his mother, who's trying to work with him to set up therapy appointments and he - he knows it will be good for him. Everyone tells him it will be good for him, and he's willing to give it a try. But it's just another thing to add to the list of worries and worries and worries, another person in his life that will know him and expect things of him and he's just - he's so exhausted. He fears he's reserved himself, now, to a lifetime of exhaustion.

His phone buzzes again and he lifts it, eyes drooping, but they snap open when he reads it. It's so unexpected, he has to scan over it three times to make sure it's real.

_From: Imane  
Hope you’re doing well. I miss you sitting next to me in bio – don’t you dare ever tell anyone I said that or we're through. I’m free after third today, feel like going to lunch?_

He’s alone in the apartment, Manon and Mika both in their classes so he has no one to show it to and confirm it’s real. Imane – being – soft? _Caring?_ Lucas must be going mad. He must be. His brain has reached the point of no return.

_To: Imane  
Are you fucking with me?_

The next message sounds more like her.

_From: Imane  
Alright, I take it back then – dumb of you to be unpleasant_

But now that Lucas thinks about it, his brain wrapping around the idea, of being in her presence, picking up their digging, biting banter, experiencing some sliver of the life he used to live, back in his bubble – a lump forms in his throat at the missed chance. He lunges for it back.

_To: Imane  
No sorry, that sounds really nice to be honest. Please._

He chews his lip waiting for a reply, minutes and minutes passing, before he sighs and reserves to spending the rest of the day alone. Maybe try to watch TV instead of staring at the wall – but then his phone buzzes against his leg and he opens it immediately.

_Alright. Meet me at Boucherie Roulière at 12:30_

12:30. He has approximately an hour and a half to pull himself together, shower and comb his hair and brush his teeth clean from all the traces of chainsmoking and – to psych himself up for sitting surrounded by people, hearing their chatter in his ears and feeling their eyes on him and knowing his image is in their brains. It’s not nearly enough time to adjust. But he’ll make do. For Imane.

 

Tuesday, 12:47

The restaurant isn't crowded today, thankfully, but still, Lucas can feel pricks of anxiety, like eyes watching him, peering through his pores to what lies underneath. He sits across from Imane, watching her scan the menu, her fingers gentle and her lip slightly curling in concentration as she reads, and somehow, watching her so casual and nonchalant, he feels better. Nerves calm. He feels, like. Safe around her. Settled. It’s a stupid thought, and he pushes it away with a flick of his head, embarrassed – but a tiny smile raises his lips anyway.

“So, what are you gonna get?” she asks, distant and relaxed, eyes not raising from their scan.

“I’m not sure,” Lucas says truthfully. He hasn’t even bothered to open up his menu – it’s a little hard to keep food down, these days, when he’s always queasy, the linings of his stomach throwing a fit if anything comes close. “Not very hungry, anyways.”

Imane finally looks up, and her eyes narrow. “I did not invite you out to lunch for you to watch me eat, you dummy. Get something. It always feels better to eat.”

He can’t help the small laugh that escapes him, his chest opening a little, swelling. “ _Always?_ ”

“Always,” she nods resolutely, a knowing quirk in the corner of her lips. “So get food. Lots of it! That’s what I’m doing – we’ll do it together, so it’s not embarrassing.”

Lucas smiles and bites, opening up his menu, and he does feel a bit of a grumble in his stomach looking at all the pictures of the food - he can't remember the last time he went to a nice Paris restaurant. Maybe so, maybe so. “Alright, sounds like a deal,” he agrees, reaching forward and offering his hand, which Imane takes with mirth in her eyes.

“I hope you realize you’re paying for all this, filthy rich kid,” she quips brightly, biting back a laugh, but Lucas doesn’t contain his. It opens his lungs and loosens his limbs and he relaxes back into his chair, lightening all the way down. He’ll figure out a way to make a dig back, sometime, but for now he’ll settle. The slip back into old routine eases him and he think he’ll allow himself this, just this once, instead of feeding the worries in his head. He can shut them out for an hour, can't he?

A waitress comes to take their orders and a different waitress comes to bring it and they eat and laugh and chatter aimlessly for a while, Imane always whip smart and Lucas chasing to stay caught up and it’s fun and easy and Lucas feels… he feels hopeful, somehow, like all the murkiness can be drained from the pool, that life can continue on and he doesn’t have to drag himself through it limb by limb, that he doesn’t have to be monitoring himself constantly for the rest of his life, that sometimes, he’ll have days like this, where words flow unfiltered and his eyes crinkle instead of sink and things will just be effortless. That he’ll have people surrounding him that make him forget to double-check every word and movement and blink and he can just… he can just live in the now.

Until –

“I see Eliott looking for you, outside of Bio sometimes,” she says, so casually and calmly, taking a sip of her drink afterwards, as though Lucas’ hasn’t stopped mid-laugh to gape instead, his eyes dropping and his chest tensing and his feet rooted to the ground. He stills. He’s left no defenses up and the only option left is to stand absolutely fucking still.

“Oh,” is all he manages to get out, quiet and cracked, and he winces as soon as he hears it. Stupid, so so stupid.

“What happened between you two?” she asks, quiet to match. Firm but undemanding, unexpecting – just there to listen. Lucas swallows the lump in his throat. He can do it… he can do it. He knows she'll listen and he trusts himself with how he feels around her - it will be fine.

“Well, I - I," he stutters at first, tongue caught in his mouth, but he pushes and pushes and he gets it out. "I think I fell in love,” he whispers, and the words don’t feel as monumental or earth-shattering as he thought they would. They slip out like normal, and cross the room as normal, and process in Imane’s ears as normal, and Lucas’ heart still feels as full and squeezed tight as normal. It feels much better that way, actually. “It was really good for a while. He made me feel good. Happy. But then I –“ he swallows past the hard lump in his throat, and it feels like a rock going down – “I fucked it up. Because it made me feel out of control. And I –“

He can’t continue, the rock trapped in his stomach now, a hard pit, and he feels the sickest he has in days. He suddenly, sharply regrets eating all this food - it churns in his stomach uneasily. But then Imane reaches forward, gentle, slow, and lays a hand on his fist where it’s clenched against the table. He looks up to meet her eyes and she nods once, slowly, graced with a smile and it all goes away. Lucas returns it weakly. But it’s sincere. He nods his head back at her, and they sit in silence once more, still, before Imane pulls away her hand.

Her phone is buzzing, a call to prayer playing quietly from the speaker, and she opens it quickly to silence it. He watches as she stares at it, once, before putting it away into the bag slung over her chair, and he opens his mouth to assure.

“It’s alright, if you want to. I don’t mind at all, obviously.”

She narrows her eyes, but the smile doesn’t go away. “I know that, of course. It’s fine. I don’t need to right now, it can wait.”

Lucas nods in understanding, sitting back in his chair, staring at his half eaten plate of food. He can't eat another bite - the surge of his appetite has passed. There’s another beat of silence before Imane picks up again, drawing a strong breath, and beginning – Lucas’ eyes draw to her as she speaks.

“It’s not something that controls me, you know. And I don't control it, either. I choose to follow it, I choose to not drink or have sex or any of that, because that is what Islam tells me is righteous, and I want to follow what I believe is right. But I also don’t let it dictate my life for me – there are some things I have to have my own thoughts on, and other experiences that inform me besides Islam. It guides me when I make my decisions, gives me strength – I can go through the day so stressed with a hundred thoughts running through my head but when I stop for a minute, and pray or think of how I want to live my life, I can slow down and think through things, and realize how much bigger the world is than just me, and it helps me. It comforts me.”

Lucas nods, almost unconsciously - he hangs onto her every word. The room has been silenced around him. He only hears Imane. “But how do you deal with everything that people assume about you? How do you get past that?”

“I ignore them,” Imane replies, matter of fact, cool, “nobody can turn me away from it now. It’s a part of me – but it also doesn’t define me, so if that’s all people choose to see when they look at me, I just take satisfaction in knowing that they’re wrong. It gives me a center, grounds me – and I work myself based on that, based on my core. It allows me to branch off when I need to, while also giving me like – like a refuge at the same time, a place to come back to when the world doesn’t make sense or I feel like my life’s been thrown off course. It roots me, but also gives me room to grow at the same time.”

Lucas nods, in awe, the words running over and over in a loop in his head. “How? How do you find something like that?” he asks, staring sharply into her eyes, wanting to listen, wanting to understand, wanting to find himself within her. He has never, never in his fucking life, felt such a deep, intrinsic hunger to be changed.

Imane smiles knowingly, and her face is the softest he’s ever seen it. “You have Manon and Mika at your flat? You came to lunch with me today, even though you've probably felt like shit these past few weeks? You tell me you’re in love? I think you already found it.”

It’s the answer Lucas expected. But it hits him all the same.

It goes silent for a long while after that. Slowly, so slowly, they return to their food, finishing up last minute bites, Lucas picking around and managing to swallow down a bit more. The world returns around Lucas, background noise reentering his ears, peripheral vision returning, coming back into sharp view but – he feels different. Struck, down to his very core. Like a switch has been flipped. And there’s no turning it back.

The waitress comes back with the bill which Lucas accepts with a teasing reminder from Imane, and they make their way to leave, walking out together, Imane squeezing his arm once, tender and friendly, before parting to go her own way back home. An impulse jumps at Lucas, overbearing, and he nearly chokes to get the words out before she can go.

“How can you be so certain?” he calls to her, standing open. She turns around to face him, open herself, and shrugs.

“I'm not – I just have faith.”

And she turns and walks away, leaving Lucas standing in the middle of the walkway, people dodging and weaving their way around him.

 

Wednesday, 13:25

_Arthur: Hey @Lucas_

_I just thought you might like to know…_

_Eliott came up to us during lunch the other day and asked if you’re okay_

_He’s worried that you’ve been gone for so long and he hopes you’re alright_

_Basile: when are you coming back, lucas?_

_Yann: we’re here for you bro. you can tell us anything. anything._

He hopes he’s alright.

He’s worried he’s been gone.

He hopes he’s alright.

Lucas sits at the piano in his apartment, clutching his phone in one hand, the fingers of his other resting lightly at the keys. He’s just finished another lesson with Mika, whose skills are stellar, by now – very worthy of the recital coming up soon that will serve as the final measure of his and his partner’s progress before they begin submitting data. Lucas is beyond proud - if Mika gets any dick out of this, it's a well-deserved reward along with the stunning grade he's sure to get. 

But now, Mika’s lessons are done, and Lucas sits alone at the piano, plinking at the keys, uninspired with any songs, just messing around, and then he gets this text and he stops his movements and he sits still, unblinking, unable to decide what the fuck to do with this newfound knowledge. 

He’s sent him so many songs, so many pieces of his chest ripped out and tossed through the air into pixels that Eliott carries around in his pocket, and there’s no response. None. He doesn’t even know if he’s listened. He wants to know if he’s okay, wants to know what’s wrong, when – when the answer is sitting right fucking there for him to open, for him to _know_. Lucas bites his lip, deliberating. Fear flutters through his chest when he thinks of it – but maybe he can try one last time. Maybe it will be enough. Maybe Eliott, in his concern, will see it and open it and he’ll know. He can finally know. Lucas will try one more time, for him.

He knows the song he wants to send. It’s one he found the other day, so struck by the longing melody, he transcribed every lift and drop carefully, painstakingly, until he found what he’s sure are the right notes. [Pour l'amour de toi.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bh-JMfDb288) It might be his final offer – he’s not sure he can give anymore. 

He straightens his back on the bench. He’ll play this strongly, without fear or hesitation or mistakes. If Eliott wants to know, it will be clear.

The song begins gently, but it is not meek. Not quiet. The strains build, soft and strong all at once, like water, which is how Lucas’ hands flow as they press the keys. He pours it all, _all,_ every time he looked at Eliott, every time he kissed him and every time he wanted to keep kissing him but didn’t because he’s an idiot fool, every time he made him laugh and laughed in return, every touch pressed to his skin and every time it made him smile, every memory he filed down to keep, every time Eliott looked back. He pours it all into this two minute song, into these strings of notes. And he justifies the title.

Pressing send of his recording, this time, is the easiest one he’s done. He has given it all and there’s nothing more to do but wait. To have faith.

He texts his boys back, the first time he’s done it in – in probably weeks. 

_Lucas: Want to meet up tomorrow? At my house?_

_Arthur: you’re alive!!!_

_Yes!!!_

_Basile: 💯💯🎊🎊😜😜_

_Yann: give us the time, we’ll be there 😌_

Lucas types his reply and locks it with a smile, and sits at the piano for a while more, back strong, chest open, hands loose. He is good. He is good.

 

Thursday, 17:14

The Boys have all been inside his home before. Parties and smoking sessions and alcohol binges and video game marathons, all on the same couch they sit on now, as Lucas faces them, sitting on the bench with his back to the piano. The image of them surrounded by his walls and his furniture and his décor is as natural as Manon or Mika. They belong. They fit.

But as Lucas watches them, their lean forwards onto the edge of the couch, the drinks he offered them clenched tightly in their hands, their eager eyes searching and searching the room trying to pretend to _not_ be searching the room – he feels like he’s going to throw up. He can’t tap his feet or shake his hands and so it’s all turned inwards and he feels like he’s going to fucking throw up.

“Nice water,” Basile mumbles, breaking through the silence, timid and unsure, “tastes – good.”

Arthur fails miserably at trying to hide a snort and smacks his arm, while Yann just shakes his head in exasperation. Lucas looks between them, licks his lips nervously, eyes shifting, and he reaches down inside, and pulls himself up. He has his mother’s and Imane’s words and _everything you do, it’s all up to you_ in his head and he has his own heart he keeps in his chest that knows him inside and out and beats every minute to keep him in alive and breathing and thinking, and he finds the power to say it. He won’t run away anymore. Any more.

“I have OCD,” he says, bare, and bold, and the Boys listen carefully – not an expression change among them. “Just like my mother. I’ve been dealing with the symptoms since I was young. But I’ve tried to push it away for so long that it’s gone unrecognized and ignored and so, these past few weeks it's all just come up and hit me hard and it was awful, at first, to have to suddenly deal with this new part of yourself that has a name for the first time, but I’m just – I’m done with avoiding and cowering. I lived a fake life before, doing nothing and feeling nothing, and I – I want my life to be real and honest, even if that means it goes terribly sometimes. 

“But I don’t want you guys to view me any differently, or think that things have to change between us because I don’t want that, not at all. It’s just – this is a part of me, but it’s not who I am. It affects my life but it just means I have to pick up the slack a little sometimes, it's not the end of things. The only thing about me that will be different, from now on, is that I’m working on trying to be better. And I hope that – that you’ll like him, still.”

It’s silent for a few moments, Lucas’ chest heaving and slackened with the effort of his pouring words, the bench creaking under his nervous squirming, before – soundlessly, almost in the blink of an eye, Yann raises his arms and gestures for Lucas to come. Lucas lunges forward, almost stumbling, to collapse into his arms and be held. He buries his face in his shoulder, inhales, feels his arms wrap around his back and he squeezes tight, falling into his best friend, and he won’t let go – not for anything, not to wipe the tears falling down his face, or the snot wetting the fabric of his shirt. Honest, even if it’s terrible sometimes.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” he whisper cries, spoken into Yann’s hoodie, but Yann pulls back and looks Lucas in the eyes, and shakes his head firmly.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, unyielding, a hard edge to his eyes Lucas has never seen before. “Please don’t be sorry. It’s alright.”

Lucas nods, once, quickly wiping away his tears before going back to hug him tight again, face dryer this time. He hears stirring from the fabric of the couch as Arthur and Basile rise, sit on either side of them and wrap their arms around the both of them too, Lucas surrounded by his friends’ embrace, and he feels warm and safe and secure and _clear,_ so clear, not murky or dark or hazy any longer, never again, not for a second. He has the love of his friends and the love of his family and he knows, he knows it, down to his bones, that he will be alright. That this will center and ground him and give him a place to go when things get too hard, and he will be alright.

They pull apart from each other eventually, Basile trying and failing to crack a joke that makes the others snicker at him before telling Lucas that his mother struggles with mental illness too, that he’s got him, he’ll be there for him, always, which earns him a thankful smile from Lucas. They nod at each other, small, and Lucas can feel his sincerity coming off him in waves.

Arthur claps him on the back and cracks his own joke about not selling weed to him anymore, which gets an earnest laugh from everyone, though Lucas brushes him off and says it’ll be fine. He’ll… he’ll deal with that thought, and the implications thereof, later. It’s for future Lucas to worry about. But now, he’ll laugh along with Arthur as he makes his stupid goofy cringey meme references, and he’ll laugh loud. 

And Yann… Yann touches his shoulder again, once, lightly, before everyone stands up to enter the kitchen and grab some food, the parasitic thieves – and stares him down, and Lucas looks up at him seriously, unblinking, ears pricked and ready to listen. “I like any version of you,” he says, quiet, only just audible over Basile and Arthur’s laughter as they raid his fridge, “and for this new one, it won’t be any different.”

Lucas nods, tears welling, only slightly, again, before he presses his lips together in a thankful smile. Yann returns it and he walks away before Lucas can reply, not needing to hear it – he just wanted him to know. Lucas follows him into the kitchen where he play-scolds Basile for getting into his food, to steal Manon’s instead, he could be eating a little healthier, anyway. The jokes and bantering and ribbing, just as before, pick up with an ease Lucas hadn’t thought possible to get back and they all howl with laughter at each other, bright and brazen and nearly shaking the four walls with the volume.

Lucas shares his rapport with his friends in the kitchen of his home, his life running forward in the now. He left his phone in the living room, where it sits on the piano stand, now, Eliott’s face brightening the screen as it rings, and rings, and rings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀
> 
> [my tumblr](http://www.summerhyuck.tumblr.com) / [ficpost](http://summerhyuck.tumblr.com/post/183368473276/you-cut-through-all-the-noise-by-27tattoos-ao3)


	13. xiii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while huh aslkjfas
> 
> im sorry it's always taken me so long lately oof but lots going on and i just couldn't keep up. but now that things are winding down and this is almost over, im really hoping i can keep the momentum going and post these last two chapters very soon 🤞
> 
> thank you to everyone who comments and recs and reads and sends such nice, kind and sweet messages, and thanks for patience, im sorry im thé worst and take forever asdf but i love and appreciate them all so so much, it makes all the stressing and pressure i put on myself a little easier ❤️️
> 
> so anyway ill uh! shut up now. hopefully this is a nice break from the shitty pain skam france has been putting us through lately, huh? 
> 
> [my tumblr](http://www.summerhyuck.tumblr.com) / [ficpost](http://summerhyuck.tumblr.com/post/183368473276/you-cut-through-all-the-noise-by-27tattoos-ao3)

Friday, 09:39

Lucas awakes with a dry mouth, a mild hangover, and a dull headache that beats at the blood in his brain.

The Boys had stayed for the night, Manon and Mika crawling out of their caves of homework to join the festivities as they laughed and prattled shit and drank a little beer in between. It had stretched into the night, everyone progressively getting drunker and stupider, and The Ms had tapped out at just before midnight before they could down any more alcohol but the Boys weren’t weak; between them, they finished two whole cases of beer.

It had been fun, at the time, to lose himself again with his boys and make them laugh and slip back into his cool kid skin, for a little while, at least. But then he awoke terribly hungover with an awful stiff crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch and looked around to see the Boys scattered in their sleeping spots around his living room and – regret start to sunk in, a little bit. He could feel the inklings of a headache coming, which only made him want to drink more alcohol to get rid of it – such is life, sometimes.

The Boys slowly stir to life as he does, all on the same clock, blinking and rubbing their squinting eyes and cracking the bones in their backs and groaning at the nausea swirling in their stomachs. Basile, who has no right to be as cheery as he is in the morning _this_ early but especially after the night they had, pops up with the bright idea for Lucas to make them breakfast.

“After all the shit you ate last night? You’re not robbing us of anymore,” Lucas cracks, though it’s joking and teasing, laced with fondness rather than bite. But everyone groans and whines as they wipe the sleep from their eyes and clear the scratch from their throats, begging Lucas to feed them, please, they’ll die without it, and he doesn’t want the death of his friends in his _own_ apartment, does he? So Lucas rolls his eyes full circle before finally lifting himself off the couch and surrendering.

After the wonderful, incredible, unbelievable support they’d shown the day before, maybe he feels like he owes them back, a little bit.

So they gather in his kitchen and Lucas pulls together a clumsy hangover breakfast from an assortment in the fridge and they chatter and chuckle, too early in the morning to be cracking jokes but still not being able to contain laughter around each other. They talk about their skipping of school and Lucas, still feeling comfortable, still feeling brave, expresses how nervous he is to return and confront the mountainous pile of missed work that’s sure to be waiting for him. He feels mortified as soon as he says it, his face warming, but when they all jump to offer their help to get him through it, he decides, consciously, that it was worth it.

He sends them off with a teasing scold for further depleting him of food, but as it’s punctuated with a tight hug for each of them, it’s hard to take his words seriously. He watches them all leave in their separate directions to finish their days, ready to enjoy the weekend ahead of them as soon as they sleep the last dredges of hangovers off, and he – he feels a wave of fondness rising, swelling in his throat, and he doesn’t push it down. He doesn’t want to do that, not anymore.

He feels good, despite the dull headache panging along his the linings of his skull. He feels… happy and warm and light, the emotions usually so foreign to him, it’s almost disorienting. But he’ll grow into it, snake his roots down, no matter how painful the stretch – he has posts to lean on for support. 

He reenters his home, and he feels the walls curling in, as he walks through, soft and safe and embracing. He’s got the whole day to himself, hours and hours to fill, and the freedom is exciting instead of scary, for the first time in weeks. He knows what he wants to do, can feel plans building in his mind, and the day goes like this:

He sits down at his laptop in his room and, despite the tightness and the knifing of his lungs in his chest, he breathes through the hiccups of anxiety and he sends emails to each of his teachers requesting for plans of action to get caught up. He tacks on a “please help me graduate” at the end that he hopes is charming, but… he doesn’t care at this point – he’ll just be honest.

He clears his blood of the stress afterwards by walking around the house and tidying, sweeping, organizing books on shelves, doing the dishes they’d left behind last night, even pulling out the rattled old vacuum they keep tucked away in a tiny closet. He thinks of Manon and Mika’s sure surprise when they arrive home, at the same rooms and same furniture, just polished. He’s sure they’ll be pleased and he warms at the thought.

He decides he wants to make dinner for them, inspired and encouraged from the complete non-disaster breakfast was, and he knows Manon will so appreciate not having to cook for herself for once. So he does it. He rummages through the cupboards and finds a recipe book and rifles through until he settles on one that’s not too difficult – but lengthy, something that will occupy his hands and his thoughts for another hour filled. 

He reads carefully and he chops the vegetables and brings things eye level to measure into cups and he’s proud of the way the house fills with the smell of his work when he’s done as it bakes away in the oven. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to move past the feeling of something he put effort and thought and sweat into, made tangible – it’s like no other to him. Proof that he’s real. That his actions count for something.

He slumps on the couch and watches TV that makes him laugh for a while as he waits for it to finish cooking and he knows it’s getting later, now, Manon and Mika should be home soon, maybe they’ve sent him a text – and he remembers his phone. He laughs at himself, amused and a little pleased he’s been able to go so long without even thinking of it, and his thoughts chew for a bit as he rises from the couch and crosses to the piano to grab his phone, thinking of getting caught up and –

And he sees the call.

And he freezes in his tracks.

The light strains his eyes as he gapes, Eliott’s name three times, there, sitting there, on his phone, _real_ and _there_ and not a blink-and-you-miss-it game his brain is forcing on him. It’s staring him in the face, glaring, more like, or punching – that’s the most accurate. He’s been punched in the face and he sits in shock, dazed and unblinking, blood flooding his mouth.

He wants to panic. He wants it so badly. He can feel the thoughts straining, swirling and building, and he would only need one little snap to release them all and spiral… it’s easy. It would be so easy. He bites his lip and closes his eyes and clenches his fists to keep from turning feelings into thoughts because it’d be so fucking easy.

No one’s around, he’s alone… no one would notice or see or be aware if he let himself break down. It’d be a secret, a small indulgence, a retreat back into the life he had before – way, way before, before 13 and before the piano and before everything. But just like the piano, as before, divorcing and splitting and breaking himself into little pieces to diffuse the pain won’t work. He knows it won’t work. He has to let himself breathe and feel it and run them through – he can’t cut himself off anymore. He decides firmly and consciously and stubbornly, and it’s in his mother’s voice: no matter how long it takes, he will get through it. He just has to slow down and take it minute by minute.

He opens his eyes, and it’s disorienting, a sudden snap back into the real world after pulling his brain up from plunging. Lights too bright. Walls pressing in instead of embracing. Even the smell of his cooking is itching in his nose, and everything is just… it’s a fucking overload. He’s made so much progress that it – it doesn’t feel right to be panicking in his home, in the place he’s supposed to feel safe and at ease in, always. He’s not ready to coincide them. He’s not. He feels tears pressing at the back of his eyes, so frustrated with himself that he can’t control it, can’t fix the emotions and tidy them up like he has the rest of his life today. He can’t. He can’t be here. It’s too much.

Another voice, like his mother’s, echoes in his brain, the words steady and clear: _a refuge… a place to come back to when I feel like my life’s been thrown off course._ A safe place. The same place he’s secured and protected and kept secret, just him and the Earth and nobody else. Of course, until he…

He shakes his head, and his body, this time, to rid himself of the shivers. He needs to go. He needs to slow down, and, and _think_ , and he just… he needs the time to himself. He wants to take the next minutes as time for himself. It’s the indulgence he can allow today. 

Quickly he gets to work, movements practiced and calm – he feels no need to be frantic. He knows relief is coming soon. He slips shoes on and pulls himself into a jacket and takes the food out of the oven, puts it in the fridge, handwrites a note for Manon and Mika instead of sending a text, not able to look at his phone again. He finds his keys to snatch and hold against his palm as he walks out the door and closes it.

 

Friday, 20:24

Already, driving and narrowing his thoughts to focus on the road and being alone, completely alone and not surrounded by the joy and comfort he’s _supposed_ to feel in his home, he feels better. He can process. He can think. He can run through every possibility his brain is dreaming up without the burden of weighing down the mood he’s built for himself in the house – out here, he can be. Any part of himself can be.

And he knows what to do. He’s calmed and clear and comfortable, emotions settled into his thoughts which he taps out in time of a rhythm against the steering wheel. There’s no need to panic, he knows, as words and words run through his mind, everything from the last weeks in his life compounded – 

_Slow down._

_Find a refuge._

_Everything you do, it’s all up to you._

_Eliott asked about you._

_Have faith._

Now that he’s allowed himself to, memories surface, of Eliott. Ones that make him laugh and smile. Ones that make him shift in his seat. Ones that make him frown, ones that hurt and cause guilt to clamp down his jaw. But he doesn’t sweep aside or brush away any of them, not this time. Not ever again. He won’t push down the longing that aches through his body as he thinks of him, thinks of what in the world he can say to him, to possibly convey… he'll let the memories come back to life, both the joy and the pain, the lightness and the darkness, and he'll let them both be.

He gets closer and closer to the meadow as he drives and drives, and the plan unfurls in his brain, the words being written delicately, each chosen with care, but it’s not like how he rehearsed his words to hurt Eliott and break himself off and fool himself into thinking he didn’t love him. This time, he forms the words and his head and he tells himself that there’s no knowing the outcome, that he’ll send his message and Eliott will read it or not, respond or not, come to him or not, and no matter which path his life turns down, it will go on. No matter how painful, he wants to survive.

He wants Eliott. He loves him. He can’t move around in his brain for a millimeter without bumping into some piece of him. The thought of life without him… it leaves a hole in his chest, a panging ache that might… it might never be filled. But he doesn’t know if it will work, if they can push through and work together and survive, and he knows there’s no way to know. He knows he has to have faith and it has to be enough for him. 

He knows, and he wants it to be; but he can’t keep his throat from closing up at the thought of surrendering.

Finally, he pulls up to his meadow. His quiet. His refuge. Dusk has faded into night now, the sky a dark, blotless blue, endlessly folding over the city as a blue curtain. Even stepping onto the ground, the tips of his shoes turning in the dirt and the floral air breathed in through his nose… he feels at peace. In the very center of the world. And he knows this is where he can begin again, always.

He jumps up onto the hood of his car, overlooking his sweet kingdom, the grass and flowers and bumps in the earth he’s known for years and laid his head on to rest. So much peace he has known here. So much comfort and grounding and understanding and… he’s never had to hide or push away or shut down any part of himself, here, with nobody around to see. It’s the only place in the world where he allows all parts of himself to _be_ without monitoring, without hesitance, without a wall. And it’s only fucking fitting, isn’t it, that this is the place he fell in love with Eliott. 

Lucas pulls out his phone, overtaken by sudden feeling, all the words swirling around his brain, all the pieces he’s tried to fit together to even begin to tell Eliott how much he loves him – they have to be sent. Typed and written down and sent. And _now._ Something, somehow, maybe a panic in his brain is telling him that it’s monumentally important for him to do it _now,_ before he loses the chance.

 _Dear Eliott. I am sitting in our meadow and I’m thinking of you,_ he begins, his fingers steady and sure – but then a noise shuffles around in his ears and he freezes. A cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck as he brings his head up and turns, tracking a movement out of the corner of his eye. It’s probably just an animal, a raccoon, maybe, so he’s about to brush it off and clear the sweat and force his head to drop back to his phone, when –

He comes. Closer from the darkness and into the pale moonlight. It’s Eliott.

It’s Eliott.

Lucas is frozen as he watches him. He's been seized, body gone numb as he takes him in. He trembles, once and hard, tears welling in his eyes and seizing his throat and slackening his mouth as he stares and stares, eyes jumping from point after point – his sloppy hair. His worn skin blue from the dark sky. His hunched shoulders. Him, him, him, it’s all him. He hasn’t seen him in a lifetime and he doesn’t even come close to having enough of himself for how much he wants to breathe him in. 

Lucas rises from the hood, stepping into the ground, and they stand apart, only a few steps of distance between them. Eliott looks so tired. Beaten, small, sad. His eyes are pink and cheeks pale and lips torn apart from his teeth digging into them, and he’s beautiful. He’s always so beautiful. 

Lucas is so shell shocked and Eliott is the first to speak. Of course he is; he always is. “You’re here,” he breathes, so quiet and so small Lucas thinks it might have been a dream – he’s not sure _any_ of this _isn’t_ a dream. Eliott has become such a far off thought and a distant memory and a fantasy Lucas longs for at night when he wishes he could fall asleep knowing he’d see Eliott’s face in the morning, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever see him stand and occupy and feel the warmth of his skin that he brings to the world and he –

“I am,” Lucas chokes out on a breath, relief crawling up his throat and blocking any other words, and he drifts forward and falls into him. His arms are open and Lucas falls right in.

Eliott’s weight is firm, grounded, rooted as though he’s part of the Earth himself as Lucas throws himself into him. Lucas winds and wraps his arms around Eliott’s waist, pulling and pulling closer and closer – he’s terrified that if he lets go Eliott will disappear or leave or break away and he couldn’t fucking bear the pain again, not again, God, not again. So he holds him and buries his face into his neck and can’t stop the shocked, strained noises that are stuck in the swelling of his throat because he’s stopped breathing, a bit, but if his last breaths are spent with his mouth buried against Eliott’s skin then that’s how he’ll go.

“Oh, Lucas,” Eliott whispers, small and cracked through with release and relief and longing, and Lucas pulls his head back, shocked, tasting salt on the corners of his lips where the tears have fallen into his mouth – Eliott is _longing,_ he knows it, he can feel it as he leans and presses into Lucas and scrambles his fingers along his back and muffles choked off sounds of reprieve. Eliott – he – he wants him back, wants his skin and touch and hold back and – Lucas could break, fall down to the grass right now, thinking of how much that means to him. 

He leans back and away from his home ground of his face against Eliott’s shoulder, rubbing his nose along the fabric of his jacket, and he takes Eliott’s face in between his hands. Gently, so tenderly, he drags away the tears that have fallen down Eliott’s cheeks with his thumbs. He stares at him so directly he feels like he’s staring through the windows to his soul. There is something determined, hard and courageous and firm in Eliott’s eyes and Lucas searches his mouth and he can see, he can see it’s on the very tip of his tongue but he can’t push through – and so he nods once, slowly, a gentle tilt up and down, to assure and comfort and send his love. _Go ahead,_ he tells him with his eyes, another _I love you_ he’s given to Eliott without using his words. 

Eliott’s breath shakes, only barely, just the slightest rise – you’d have to had spent hours listening to how his breaths come and feeling the rise and fall of his lungs under your hands to notice and Lucas has, he has he has he has and he has never forgotten it, not ever, not for a second. Lucas feels like he knows the words Eliott will say before he says them, but still, he is surprised.

“ _I_ am here. And you are not alone.”

Spoken and not whispered, said and not thought, told and not kept. Lucas has to close his eyes under the weight of it all – he can’t contain, he can’t contain how much he loves Eliott and he closes his eyes so it doesn’t pour through and fill up the meadow and the city and the world. So instead, when Eliott takes his face between his hands, stroking his thumbs along his cheekbones, Lucas lays his own hand overtop to rest and turns, planting a small, sweet kiss into Eliott’s palm. It tells him, again. _I love you._ Lucas has always struggled with words, with being able to name the shit he kept inside his head, with monitoring and checking and rehearsing each word he would say before he let it come out, with being too polished and charming and fake and a shadow, only a shadow of who he really should be, his words fitting to match or maybe he fitting to match his words.

But now, standing together with Eliott as they lean in to each other, swaying slowly back and forth in their embrace with Eliott’s arms around his shoulders and Lucas’ arms around his waist, in the center of the world, words fail him. The words he had planned to tell Eliott, they’ve fallen away, forgotten, lost. But he doesn’t need them anymore. This is enough. This is more than enough. He is enough.

They hold onto each other tight, half in darkness and half in the weak blue moonlight. Together and not alone.

 

Saturday

They drive back to Lucas’ apartment, the walls welcoming him in, again, and Lucas takes Eliott by the hand and leads him to his bed. 

And Lucas sleeps. He actually sleeps, for the first time in fucking weeks. With Eliott’s nose pressed against the back of his neck and his hand stroking his shoulder in a gentle back and forth, he closes his eyes and drifts and sleeps long and well and easy.

Eliott watches over him. He adjusts the blanket when Lucas shifts and it slips down. He rubs his hands along Lucas’ back, sliding over and over, his palms catching against the fabric of his t-shirt and making him wince but he doesn’t stop it anyway. He curls forward and presses against Lucas’ body and feels him breathing and sits in the silence, and time passes in droves, and Eliott lives through it all so he can watch Lucas take a break from it all.

When Lucas finally dazes awake, shifting around under the blankets, still half under and not able to open his eyes yet, Eliott lifts his head and mumbles a quiet good morning and ends it with a kiss pressed to Lucas’ back. Lucas isn’t sure what time it is. He doesn’t know if it’s dark or light outside. He wants to keep his eyes closed and stay away from it all for just a little bit longer.

“Good morning,” Lucas finally manages to mumble back and he can feel Eliott smile against his neck. It’s a dream he’s held on to for so long, something that plays over and over in his head without mercy or reprieve, and it’s – it’s finally _real_ and happening and it’s enough to make Lucas open his eyes. He never wants to miss another one of Eliott’s smiles. Not ever again.

He lifts himself and shifts around, the blanket catching around him, the bed creaking underneath his weight. He turns around and lies back down, face to face with Eliott, and he looks at him. He takes him all in. He’s a fucking fool, and he wants to go back in time and shake himself by the shoulders for not knowing and not realizing and not ever fucking appreciating how lucky he was to see Eliott in the morning, still sleepy and small, all of him contained down to the bed, all of him wrapped into a blanket. How lucky he was to see him vulnerable. How much he regrets not giving him the same in return. 

Lucas frowns, just the slightest downturn of his lips; he’s thinking. He reaches forward and strokes his fingers down Eliott’s cheek to feel his soft downy skin and the warmth of his permanent blush, even in the morning and he’s thinking. But Eliott’s eyebrows draw as he notices, and he leans forward a little bit, imploring. Guilt twists in Lucas’ gut, heavy, as Lucas watches Eliott bite his lip and hold back his questions because he doesn’t know if he’ll get a straight answer. He never has before. 

The guilt twists further, and Lucas bites his own lip. He feels... almost like he's tricked Eliott, worries that maybe he's manipulated and lured him and taken him back only to fool him again into thinking he's something he's not. And the thought of that makes Lucas fucking sick. So he has to… he has to come into it with full honesty – not the mere shreds of honesty he’s given Eliott before – and he has to talk and not be silent even though it’s scary and he has to let him know, fully, what he might be walking into, and he can only hope he’ll choose to take the steps. 

So when Eliott leans forward and rubs the tips of their noses together, trying to push his questioning down for the sake of being pleasant and easy and good like he always is, eyes caught on Lucas’ mouth and hand brushing through his hair when he asks him “good sleep?” Lucas doesn’t even bother to answer. Eliott’s done enough soothing and pleasing and it’s Lucas’ turn now.

“Eliott,” he cuts in suddenly, a little desperate and shaky; if he didn’t just close his eyes and leap he knew he might never do it. It’s one thing to voice his fears and worries and deepest fucking shames to himself and his mother and his friends – but it’s quite another to open his heart so vulnerably to the boy who already has it between his hands. It’s delicate and beating and could be crushed in one blow that he’s just – he wants, so badly, to be able to say he’ll get past and move on but he’s not sure he could bear it if Eliott decides he doesn’t want it after all.

But when Eliott’s eyes snap up to his the second he says his name, open, light, kind, beautiful, much more beautiful than any of Lucas’ memories were even close to being capable of keeping, and so, so honest, forgiving, imploring, something inside of Lucas clicks and he knows he can do it. He can give Eliott his faith.

“I’ve always had issues with control,” Lucas begins, swallowing hard, voice bobbing in his throat but he keeps his eyes open as he tells Eliott _everything._ His childhood bedroom. His mother’s episodes. His father’s distance. The piano. The smoking, the drinking, the sex. The past few weeks. Everything, everything. He tells Eliott everything. He’s always thought his brain to be a pool, never able to be drained from the obsessive thoughts that swim and lurk and sink, only pushed down further into the depths, ignored but not gone, not at all.

But now… he almost feels like it’s a fountain. Things are changing and cycling through constantly. He can clean and filter and freshen, because it’s never ending, always capable of filling anew. He can think of new thoughts. He can choose what he decides to put in it. And if bad things come into him, no matter how stubborn and no matter how strong, he only has to wait for them to pass, to run their course. And then the water can clear and he can live in peace once more. 

And now that he’s given Eliott his life, both his past and his present, he begins to think might be filled again. The feelings are straining, waiting to flood through, waiting, waiting for the reassurance that Eliott can give in return. The entire time Lucas speaks, Eliott listens silently, intently. He blinks slowly, nods occasionally, and sometimes unwittingly releases a strangled sound when Lucas talks of every time he pushed something deeper, but he doesn’t ever look away. Not once. 

And once Lucas is finished, and sits waiting with baited breath, Eliott leans forward. Lucas focuses on little details of him as he moves. The way his hair drags against the pillow. The blanket shifting around over his shoulders. His eyelashes fluttering as he closes his eyes – and presses a tender, sweet kiss to Lucas’ lips. Lucas nearly shudders as he feels it; he closes his eyes and returns his kiss and gasps against his mouth, unable to stop the tears of relief that leak through and trail down his cheeks in silvery threads.

Eliott opens his eyes again and moves his hands from Lucas’ neck, swiping his thumbs across Lucas’ cheeks, wiping away the tears with his skin. Lucas closes his eyes against Eliott’s touch, as he feels him cradle his face between his gentle hands and sooth the delicate skin of his undereyes with the pads of his fingers as he has so many times before, and they merely sit and breathe together for a few moments before Eliott’s touch hardens. He pulls Lucas’ face to his, looking directly in, expression firm and a bit stern, and he speaks.

“I love you, Lucas,” he says quietly. Lucas listens silently, still, almost in shock, unable to do anything else, because finally, _finally_ Eliott has returned what he’s tried to tell him so many times before through his touches and his songs and the spaces in between his words. “Thank you for telling me. I was really fucking hurt by you, I won’t lie to you. I’d… I’d opened myself up again, to another person, and allowed myself to not be afraid or ashamed, and then you told me I was too much for you and it hurt, Lucas. It hurt. But I understand now, and I forgive you, and I love you. 

"And I’m sorry for the things I said too,” he says, quieting, turning small, like his voice has curled in on himself. His cheeks flare red with shame and for the first time in maybe ever Lucas wants the color to fade. “You’re not crazy, Lucas, and it’s a horrible thing for me to have said. I don’t want to lash out at you anymore, I want to know you. I want to understand you. I want to be with you.”

Lucas wonders if he will ever, ever be able to rid himself of the lump in his throat that seems to have taken up a permanent lodging. He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to clear the stopper in the fountain, the straining feelings that he almost feels like he's been waiting his entire life to let flood through. Eliott is so wonderful to him and – and suddenly, very suddenly, he’s worried he can’t give him the same in return. He’s not sure he’ll be able to handle it, handle knowing and understanding and being with him because Lucas knows he’ll lash out, he knows he’ll lose it and have bad days sometimes and he never wants Eliott to be hurt by him again. Ever. He’d rather lose him than hurt him again. So he has to let him know.

“Sometimes things will be bad,” Lucas whispers in response, lifting his hand and trailing soft fingers down Eliott’s neck, tucking them just underneath the collar of his shirt, feeling his skin, praying it won’t be the last time he’ll get to do it. “I’ll have days where I can’t help it. Where I’ll be nitpicking and anxious and touchy because you’re not doing what I want you to do or things aren’t going like I want them to go in my head. And sometimes I’ll get angry. I’ll yell, or leave, or push you away because I want to be alone. And there’s lots I have to do to start getting better. I have to – I have to start going to therapy and I have to quit smoking and drinking and I have to visit my mother to help clear my head and… I’m afraid that you won’t be able to handle it all. Things will change and it’ll be because of me. And I don’t want you to suffer because of it. I don’t. I don’t.”

Reprieve. Even though Lucas is ashamed and scared and sick to his stomach, angry at himself for still panicking, still letting the anxious thoughts run, still thinking of the future when he should focus on the minute he’s in now – but now, Eliott finally knows. He’s been given Lucas’ past, and his present, and a glimpse into his future, and now he can finally know. He can finally, finally know Lucas, good and bad. And so Lucas, despite it all, only feels reprieve. 

He keeps his eyes open as Eliott answers. He feels completely exposed, nothing left to hide, all parts, even the dark parts, brought to light, and so he knows that whatever Eliott chooses, he can be at peace with. So when he begins to speak, again taking Lucas’ face between his hands, Lucas listens without fear. 

“I don't have a mental illness, Lucas, and I will do the same. I’ll get angry sometimes, I’ll yell and push you away because you’ve hurt me or confused me or done something I don’t like. We’ll fight, it’ll happen, there’s no getting past that. But I would rather be upset with you than not be with you at all. And I would rather understand you than leave you, even if it takes more than one try. I love you Lucas, I love you, and I’m not going anywhere. I want to live through this together.”

Eliott has always been so earnest. So sweet and open and honest, able to be pinned down under Lucas’ thumb and examined and played and won, and Lucas has always thought that he’s known him, could see everything in his face. But now, Eliott has _surprised_ him with his complete, unbridled honesty. He’s never looked more earnest in _anything,_ and Lucas – Lucas believes him. He believes every word he’s said. 

He’s filled with such a profound sense of relief, of peace, of acceptance, he’s been struck and changed and touched down to every cell of his body. Eliott knows everything, now. He knows absolutely everything. And he wants to be with him, still. The lump in his throat is gone. He feels free, and without fear, and he allows himself, decidedly, to flood open. 

“I love you,” Lucas gasps out, the first time he’s said the words with his throat, and nothing is stuck or pressing down or choking him anymore. Not anymore. He feels certain and sure and at ease, in everything, for everything, that Eliott will be here with him, and he wants him to know in every way how much he loves him. It’s the final thing he has to give. “I love you, Eliott.”

They both lean forward at the same time and they kiss. They take each other’s face between their hands which become wet from the tears of joy and elation and love that fall, and they kiss and kiss, soft and gentle and quiet, matching the warmth of the sun that begins to pool in the room through Lucas’ curtains. A change. A new time. The dawn of another day, or another hour, or another minute. When they pull apart and close their eyes against each other, just lying together quietly, breathing soft, ankles locked under the blankets and noses brushing against each other tenderly, Lucas gets an idea.

“I’m Lucas. It’s nice to meet you,” he says quietly, playful and fond and warm, and he’s not sure which feels brighter right now, his eyes or his smile.

Eliott opens his eyes and they shine with mirth, and he giggles, a little, catching onto the joke immediately. He gets him. “Nice to meet you Lucas, I’m Eliott.” They both laugh together, their first shared joke, now that they’ve started over and begun again, and Lucas thinks, quietly, firmly to himself, of how lucky he is to have been given another chance. Another chance to go on, to forgive himself, to live with his illness with the love of his family and friends by his side, and to be whole. He’ll protect this with his life.

“I had missed your smile,” Eliott whispers into his ear as Lucas smiles warmly into his neck. “You’re beautiful when you laugh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	14. coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellooo.. it’s been a while 
> 
> so, one look at my blog will tell you that I’ve lost interest in skam france (kpop got me ;o; stan lee donghyuck) and that’s why I had to leave this fic unfinished. but I always kept it in the back of my head that I wanted to go back and follow through, and give it the ending I planned for.
> 
> but – this isn’t that. a lot of scenes I planned were cut out, because I just didn’t have the energy to write them; but honestly, I think that this might turn out to be even better than what i started with. i’m so so happy to have finally finished this and I hope it’s satisfying to everyone who waited so long <3
> 
> so here’s this nice little coda, happiness and fluff only :)
> 
> and lastly, i just want to thank every single person who has showed such amazing support for this fic – all the comments, anons, reblogs, and kudos i have gotten are kinda,, lowkey unbelievable. and i’m really grateful for it all. this fic took a lot of effort and i’m glad i got to share it with so many people. thanks for sticking with me <3

“So, are you nervous?” Lucas remembers asking Mika right before he’d left their apartment, watching him slip on his dress shoes and fiddle with his tie and compulsively glance at his hair in the mirror in front of their door with something knowing and fond in his eye. 

But Mika had scoffed, turning away from the mirror to face Lucas with a sniff. “Of course not. There’s no room to be nervous when Eskild promised me he’d suck my dick later if I performed well and got us a good grade.”

And the move to step forward and rub a comforting hand down Mika’s arm, along with Lucas’ fond smile, fell into something twisted in displeasure. “I literally did not need to know that,” he’d glared in disgust, and Mika just shrugged haughtily, but the lines in his shoulders were tense. 

“You asked,” he said, but it came out weakly, and Lucas rolled his eyes. He completed his move to stroke down Mika’s arm and even tucked a chin over Mika’s taut shoulder, looking in his eyes through the mirror.

“You’ll do great, I know you will. You’re a beautiful player.” Mika’s eyes widened at first, at this rare display of affection, but then they softened to match Lucas’ own, a sweet moment exchanged in the glass of the mirror. Mika broke away to turn around and face Lucas directly, his smile faint but sincere. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, and Lucas had winked, telling him he better get a move on or else he might be late. And that anyway, Eliott was coming over soon and was sure to be wearing a suit, and Lucas wanted the time to ravish him in private. 

But, unfortunately, when Eliott arrived, Lucas didn’t even get to kiss him as well as he wanted – Eliott cut it short to just a peck and even stopped Lucas’ wandering hand from sneaking in between the buttons of his dress shirt.

“No time for that!” he’d cried, swinging the door open again and pulling Lucas outside. “I want to get there as soon as we can, I want to see him!”

Lucas pouted, hanging onto Eliott’s shoulders to try to pull him back in again – but the fucking bastard was so tall and so strong and he’d just kept Lucas moving right along, and Lucas really tries not to let their size difference get to him, but Eliott doesn’t always make it easy. “He’s not a baby,” Lucas scowled, finally accepting that they were ditching the call of the living room couch to head to Mika’s recital early, and not pleased about it. “The real one here is me, I’m baby, and I haven’t made out with you since lunch today and that is about 6 hours and 32 minutes too long.”

Eliott raised an eyebrow and glanced down at his watch, reading _18:33._ He rolled his eyes but gave Lucas a laugh of delight anyway, and took him by the hand to force him to speed down the stairs by his side. “All that talk of minute by minute made you a clock, huh? You should use that for better things, like keeping track of the 27 minutes before Mika’s performance.”

Then it was Lucas’ turn to roll his eyes, his feral Eliott instincts tamped down a bit more then, to make room for something more rational. “Alright, fine. But if you don’t spend the whole twenty seven minutes with your hand in mine…”

Eliott giggled, and swung their hands up to press a warm kiss to the back of Lucas’ before nodding his agreement. “That’s time management for you.”

And that leads to now, where Eliott’s hand is still warm between Lucas’ fingers as they sit in the second of five rows of seats in front of the stage, one minute away from the curtain draw and Mika’s performance of the piece that started it all, _I Love You._ Manon, who was out with the girls before, sits beside Lucas, and the glance shared between them is both eager and filled with nerves.

“Do you think he’ll do well?” Manon whispers. Lucas considers, looking back at the curtain and imagining Mika just a few feet behind it, twiddling his fingers nervously, going over the finger movements in his head, closing his eyes and picturing it. And he turns back and nods, smiling.

“Yes, I think he’ll do great.”

When the curtains finally open and the stage is exposed, Eliott is the only one to make a noise – it’s a little excited squeal, and Lucas rolls his eyes but his heart is squeezed so tight with fondness he loses his breath for a second. Mika is sitting at the piano in the center, and Eskild is beside him holding a violin against his chin. 

Mika turns to the crowd and Lucas is pleased, relieved, and proud that there’s a square in his shoulders, his confidence obvious from even such a distance. But then, if Lucas squints, he can see a fairly huge red mark just by his jaw, and he shakes his head, chuckling softly to himself. Getting a good luck hickey from your boyfriend is sure to boost anyone’s confidence. 

“The piece we’ll be performing is called _I Love You._ And I’d like to dedicate this to Lucas.” Mika’s eyes settle on him and Lucas stills, his jaw clenching unconsciously to try to keep his face stony. “He’s one of the strongest, most lovely people I’ve ever met, and I owe this performance to him.”

And fuck keeping his emotions inside, surrounded by a crowd of people that is half filled with strangers – tears well in Lucas’ eyes and he breaks into a wide, warm smile, feeling it all the way down to the marrow of his bones. Eliott pats his leg next to him, and Lucas turns to him, sharing his smile with him.

Then, the performance begins, the familiar, comforting notes floating through the room and settling in Lucas’ ears. Accompanied by the violin this time, Lucas is nearly breathless at its beauty and depth, the instruments almost speaking to each other, like they’re exchanging I love yous between them. He’s so engaged in the music, almost humming and closing his eyes and swaying to the melody, he almost misses Eliott’s gasp next to him.

He opens his eyes quickly and turns to him, puzzled, and finds Eliott fishmouthing wordlessly, clearly very struck by something. “This is the song you played for me, that day I slept over for the first time,” he starts, his voice in awe. “It’s called I Love You?”

Lucas thinks back and back, to that day, and he remembers the way he turned around mid-song to meet Eliott’s eyes, remembers the lurch he’d felt in his chest, like he’d given up a piece of himself. He blushes red with the realization, with shame at the way it had taken him so long to figure out when it had been obvious from the start. From that day at the piano, from the day he brought Eliott to his meadow, from the day he blew glittery smoke in his mouth, honestly. Countless minutes spent with him, and still countless minutes to go.

His blush fades and he smiles, and it’s him that pats Eliott’s leg this time, giving him a faint squeeze. “I meant it,” he whispers back, and they both return their gazes to the stage, their hearts beating a little faster, each of them, in their chests.

The song is finished and it’s harrowing, but in a striking way – the notes still echoing around between Lucas’ ribs, sure to stay for the rest of the night. Mika stands from the piano bench and Eskild lowers his violin, and they both walk to the front of the stage and take their bow – their little crowd before them bursts into applause. Lucas thinks that if they don’t get full marks for their project, their professor isn’t fit to be a professor.

Lucas, Eliott and Manon all meet them once they’ve come offstage to share their various congratulatory marks, and Lucas feels himself tighten once more when he and Mika meet eyes, a swell of gratitude tiding in his chest. He moves forward to embrace him tightly, and he whispers a quiet thank you in his ear – when Mika pulls away, he presses a brief kiss to the side of his head. 

They also exchange handshakes with Eskild, this being the first time they’ve met him – and they’re surprised to find he has an accent, the name somehow not already being a giveaway. “Foreign exchange student,” Mika explains, wrapping a proud arm around Eskild’s shoulders. Eskild rolls his eyes and shakes his head, cracking a joke about how he only came to learn French and have sex in Paris, and Lucas is warm when he laughs all along with them. He thinks they’re cute, and he’s happy for them.

Once the conversation begins winding down, Lucas and Eliott slowly, slowly begin drifting away, Lucas whispering in Eliott’s ear that he wants some alone time with his sunshine. Eliott giggles at the tickle against his neck, but nods happily, slipping his hand in between Lucas’ fingers. Lucas is helpless to follow Eliott’s lead, his limbs always ready and pliant to head in his direction.

They end up walking up the stage, heading to the piano, and Eliott sits down eagerly, patting the spot beside him on the bench. “Will you come play for me?” he asks sweetly, beaming and radiant like he always is, and Lucas of course can’t do anything but smile and comply. 

“Any requests?” he asks, the bench creaking slightly as he settles down. He brushes lightly over the keys, not pressing down on any, just getting a feel and familiarizing his hands. Eliott reaches forward and plucks a few keys of his own, and Lucas gets a glimpse of that sweet blush he loves beyond reason. 

“Maybe you could teach me something?” he asks, shy, the words concealing an ache – Lucas wonders how long he’s been wanting something like this. He’s a little surprised, but mostly fond, touched, even. Slowly, at the pace of a snail, honestly, Lucas is learning to accept his brain for what it is, but slow progress is still progress. And Eliott feeling like that, like there’s knowledge to glean from his brain… he’s just touched. 

“Of course, sunshine,” Lucas agrees, voice as soft as the keys he’s begun pressing down with a feather touch. “Any requests?”

Eliott seems to have gained more confidence now, his shoulders straightening, his cheeks reaching up to his eyes once more. “I was thinking _I Love You._ ”

Lucas chuckles a little. “Of course you were.” He begins to search his brain, trying to remember how the notes go, the knowledge coming with much more ease with the melody still pressed to his chest like flowers in a book. 

Once he’s confident enough in his memory, he reaches for Eliott’s wrists where they’re sitting in his lap, and gently brings them up to the keys, settling them into position. “Okay, so this is the first note you’ll play, and then the next, these three in a row…” Lucas begins, tenderly directing Eliott over the piano, playing the song along with him, hands over hands. 

And Lucas is struck with a sudden realization, only a few minutes in, that Eliott’s his music from his childhood, reborn. The Lucas in the past lost touch with it, severed himself from it much like the piano’s own strings were severed. He’d cut himself off and locked himself away and turned the music he loved so dearly into a dull, rotting hum inside him. But Eliott – he brought him to life again. 

Shared his music with him, all the songs Lucas now keeps his most frequented playlist. Listened in awe to his piano playing, came to reunite with him by reading between the melodies the words that Lucas couldn’t say aloud. And now, asked him so sweetly, so honestly, to teach him to play a song. And Lucas feels his heart tighten with some unnamable emotion, something like nostalgia – he wishes, briefly, he could go back in time to hug thirteen year old Lucas around the shoulders and tell him that all would be alright, that he would get his music again. That he would find someone who cuts through all the noise.

Lucas keeps playing with Eliott for a while more, and Eliott, impressively, picks up the song quite quickly. About halfway through his teaching, Eliott turns to Lucas with a grin and says, “that day you played it for me… this is finally my I love you back, isn’t it?”

Lucas exhales quietly, unsure of what to reply, not knowing how to match the tenderness. All he can offer is a smile, and a kiss dropped to Eliott’s shoulder. He again settles his hands over Eliott’s, and their wrists align. They play until Eliott has finished the whole song through, and Lucas laughs when his immediate response, afterwards, is to ask to play it again. And Lucas, like always and always, fulfills him.

And Eliott is happy, and Lucas is even happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> end :)
> 
> [tumblr](http://www.autumnhyuck.tumblr.com) / [ficpost](https://autumnhyuck.tumblr.com/post/184879131581/fourstomlinson-you-cut-through-all-the-noise-by) / [curious cat](http://curiouscat.me/suncheng)


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